


Soldier of Fortune

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Biting, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Military, Soldiers, Top Sherlock, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13286856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: The only vampire working with the military police, Sherlock is sent to investgate a mysterious death in a regiment in Afghanistan. Given Captain John Watson as a go-to man, Sherlock can't work out if the man is distracting him from the case, or aiding him. And in this case, everyone is a suspect.





	1. Chapter 1

"Another assignment for you, Sherlock," Lestrade was saying as Sherlock rummaged through the files in his cabinets for nothing in particular. It was simply amusing to try and find out how much rummaging and rudeness the Military Policeman could take before he snapped. Or offered Sherlock something more tempting.

And this was tempting.

Sherlock gave the man a sideways glance. "This had better be worth my time, Lestrade. I'm going to kill the next foot soldier who tells me that their use of torture was in reverence to their country." 

Lestrade pushed his fingers into his head as if fighting off a migraine. "Don't tell me that. If you actually kill someone-"

"You'll what? Arrest me? How quaint."

"No. I know I can't touch you. But I will stop going to you for help.” He pulled a ‘try me’ face.

Sherlock huffed. "As if you could stop me from taking your cases. Locks are nothing."

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock. Do you want the bloody case or not?"

Sherlock looked at the manila file folder in Lestrade's hand as the man swivelled around in his chair to face Sherlock. Lestrade was older than Sherlock had been at the time of his first death. Greying, but tanned, and a still-remaining sense of right and wrong, despite everything he’d seen in his relatively short life.

Sherlock’s ideas of morality were very different, as was his appearance. His hair was as dark as it ever was, his skin pale enough to look otherworldly, not just anaemic. His red eyes gleamed with interest. It was obvious that, despite all of his complaints and threats, he couldn't stay away once Lestrade waved the scent of a puzzle under his nose.

He snatched the file, and Lestrade grinned as he explained. "Suspicious death of one of our soldiers. It's suspected to be an inside job. But made to look like some of the locals did it. The setup is very strange… The locals weren’t meant to be hostile – they were close to reaching an understanding with our troops. Their leader had been meeting with the major-"

Sherlock's eyes scanned the page, and he snapped it closed. "I'll solve it."

"Right. Well, that division's been suspended. They're still in Afghanistan. They've been detained. Technically. To the country, while the investigation is ongoing. They're basically just inactive."

"Text me the specifics."

"Okay."

"Good day, Lestrade."

Lestrade rolled his eyes as Sherlock swept from the office and vanished from sight. 

 

*

 

There passed two days while Sherlock waited impatiently, at Lestrade's insistence, for official permission for his visit and investigation to come through. When it did, he was on a four seated military aircraft within the hour. He always thought, briefly, when he was surrounded by such new technology, how much things had changed since 1651. Which lead him to briefly question whether or not this regiment had been told that they'd have an immortal sleeping (or at least lying down) in their quarters. Sherlock couldn't imagine it would go over too well.

It was a good thing he was bulletproof.

Still, he'd dealt with many a prejudice before. Many, many times. After all, his kind were not common, anymore. After the burnings, Vampires counted at just a sixth of what they had 300 years ago (of course, more humans were lost than vampires in those fights). And since the human government ran a coalition with vampires, and had done for centuries, Sherlock was protected by more than just his naturally bulletproof skin. It was beyond illegal to kill him. 

The sentence was death.

By the time the plane landed, Sherlock had settled into a cool indifference. It was all a game, really. 

Sherlock stepped out of the cramped space in the chopper onto a landing strip of tarmac surrounded by dessert and mountains. Two soldiers stood stiffly by an all-terrain vehicle which Sherlock assumed was to take him to the camp. Sherlock ignored the buffeting winds caused by the chopper blades, and walked towards them. He didn’t even need to steel himself against the scent of their blood. Sherlock prided himself on not even thinking about feeding until he absolutely needed to.

The commanding officer did not offer his hand. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am. Major James Sholto?"

"Yes. It's a pleasure to have you here," the man lied through his teeth. "This is Captain John Watson," the major introduced the smaller man next to him, who gave a short, forced smile when he met Sherlock's red eyes. His face was doing his best impression of polite indifference, but the tension in his shoulders said different. He offered a hand, though, which Sherlock took, giving a short handshake before inhaling briefly and letting go. The shorter man had cautious, but not cruel eyes. "Watson will be your go-to man. Wherever you go, he goes. Whatever you find, he reports back to me. That’s the arrangement.”

Sherlock snorted. "I appreciate the thought, but that isn't necessary. Just give me full access to the camp, and to your files, and we'll have this done within a day or two."

John snorted, incredulously, and Sherlock's red eyes narrowed at him. 

"I'm very serious, Captain Watson. There's a very real risk that this was an inside job and I cannot have any potential suspects knowing everything I know."

The major folded his arms. "Well then, I suppose I'll just have to have someone sent over who will be more compliant."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'm not leaving. Do you want this solved, or not?"

"Am I actually a suspect, then?" John asked, blinking suddenly as he realise the implication.

Sherlock looked at him. "No, but Major Sholto is, as of about two minutes ago. I can't have you reporting to him every detail of what I find, though to be fair I suspect you wouldn't understand most of it."

"Excuse me?"

"Watson, back down." Major Sholto met Sherlock's gaze evenly. They stared at each other for a good ten seconds before the enormous man twitched his lip. "Very well. The captain will still be your escort. John, have a detailed report drawn up for every day. But, keep it to yourself. I won't see it until the investigation is over. Is that good enough for you, Bloodsucker?"

Sherlock didn't flinch at the name. "That sounds perfectly acceptable, Major Sholto."

 


	2. Chapter 2

John concentrated on the road as they drove towards the temporary barracks. The dust kicked up, and the tyres bocketed over stones, and just keeping control of the wheel made John's shoulders ache slightly, his arms shaking with the vibrations travelling up through the vehicle. It meant you had to pay attention.

And it was almost distraction enough from the deep red eyes looking straight ahead, visible in the rear-view mirror. 

Almost. 

John forced his eye forward, again. He had met only one vampire, before.

He'd been just over twenty, in his first year of medical training, and a vampire had come into class, to be studied. What to do, should they find a vampire under their medical care. The vampire sat politely and pleasantly on the examining table as the students took it in turns to listen to his silent chest, to take his non-existent blood-pressure, to look for a very, very keen pupil response.

Then came a lecture from their usual teacher about how to cope should they receive a vampire as a patient.

Not a lot, it turned out.

The undead could not be killed, save by methods that were secret, and unsaid, and punishable by death should they be employed. Any serious injuries like broken necks, pelvises and so on, would heal if given enough time. There was no need to splint broken limbs - they would set perfectly within a day. The only real danger was blood loss. Although it wouldn’t kill a vampire, any undead person with severe loss of blood would seek to replenish their own empty veins using the closest human source - which could well be the doctor trying to save them. And there was no punishment for turning on their saviour, like that. As soon as a vampire acted, a human went from being considered a person to being considered food – in the eyes of the law. They could fight, or resist, but if they were killed, the incident was regarded as unremarkable as someone throwing away a cardboard packet that once had a sandwich inside.

Leave vampires alone, or run, seemed to be the advice. 

Advice John had followed without really thinking about it, for years.

And now there was one coming to stay in the barracks. 

John's hands tightened on the steering wheel. The sooner this was over, the better. 

 

*

 

"This is your... room," John said, letting Sherlock through the door. "Such as it is."

Sherlock looked over the very small space. In terms of privacy in the barracks, it was luxurious – there was some plasterboard separating the space from the room next door, a sheet pinned to the ceiling to hide the Lego-like ceiling tiles, two beds separated by a trunk with J.H.W painted on the side, and a basin with no running water.

The vampire frowned. "Two beds?"

"Yes, we've got to bunk up, sir," John clicked his tongue to hide the squirming going on inside him. He’d almost outright refused when it was suggested, but John wasn’t one for refusing orders, and he would rather the vampire be with him than in the general population. The fact John usually slept separately was something he would keep to himself, if possible. The official story was that John, as a doctor, needed to be able to get around without anyone else getting in his way. "Major's orders. You don’t have to like it any more than I do."

"What _does_ he think I'm going to do?"

"Accuse him, I suppose," John said.

"Mm." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Would that upset you?"

John hesitated.

He didn't _like_ James, exactly, but they were fucking each other. They were... comrades. Fuckbuddies. Friends, to a point. An outlet for one another, if nothing else. But not close. John certainly wouldn't put James before justice. "I'd be happy any culprit was caught. Sir."

Sherlock flashed a grin. The sight of teeth made John's stomach cramp involuntarily. Prey response, perfectly natural, and yet very unwelcome. John had seen injuries caused by vampires. Deaths. Torn-out throats, snapped vertebrae, wrists left ragged and bloody. They would never heal. He didn’t need to be reminded of what Sherlock could do. And yet his brain wouldn’t stop.

"I'm sure you’d be delighted if I hauled off your major to a court martial,” Sherlock said. “And less of the 'sir'. I'm not a soldier."

"Have you ever been one?" John asked, without thinking. 

Sherlock’s grin vanished, and he glared. "Everyone fought. Everyone. Surely you know that."

John swallowed. Of course. Everyone fought in _that_ war. "Yes. Sorry." He rolled his shoulders back. "Right. So... Where'd you want to start?"

 

*

Sherlock pursed his lips after the mention of the war.

He did not like to think about it.

He hadn't minded the fighting. That had come naturally enough, protecting his kin. It was the loss that hurt. The memories of torture --not his. Sitting in a dirty chamber, rats around him, listening to the screams of his brothers and sisters. Their skin was impenetrable to all but fire and magic, so the humans were creative.

And they had still lost.

Pathetic.

Sherlock dumped his bag on one of the beds. "First, I'd like to see the officer in charge of the medical reports. There were some holes in the dead man's charts. Whether out of incompetence or pure negligence, I'd like to know."

There was a silence.

"His name was Scott Brooks."

Sherlock looked up. "Sorry?"

"The soldier who was killed. His name was Scott Brooks, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm aware. I've read the file, however I try and save my thoroughly pleasant manners for people who are still alive. I have a very limited supply of pleasantries," Sherlock snapped. "And while we're stuck together, you can forget the formalities. I know you're not a complete idiot, so you'll be helping me with this investigation. I won't pretend that I like your presence and you don't pretend that you like mine. Professionals helping one another so they can get rid of one another. Does that sound acceptable?"

John pressed his lips together. "That's fine with me. So, what do I call you, then?"

"Sherlock. And I'll call you John."

"Fine."

"Brilliant. Shall we go, now?"


	3. Chapter 3

The medical bay was a separate structure, away from the oversized tents and plasterboard structures that made up the barracks. It was sealed, and hygienic. John would ordinarily have been attached to it, hardly out of it, but a grounded regiment meant no one was injured or ill beyond what the two nurses could handle. 

John watched with interest as the vampire strolled beside him, through the desert sun, without a flinch. The old stories – back before the war - used to say they were combustible in mere sunlight. Not true. They were very UV-sensitive, but as long as they got into the shade fairly quickly they would heal from any sun damage instantly. And even prolonged sun exposure wouldn’t kill them They couldn't be stabbed, or shot, or blown up. The only thing they were vulnerable to was fire. Fire, and old methods lost through time. You’d have one shot.

If they didn't kill you first. 

Even without meaning to.

John had received a young man almost dead during his training. He was wheeled in from an ambulance, unconscious, white as a bone, limp as clothes without a hanger. There was nearly nothing John and his colleagues could do for him except make him comfortable - he was arresting, his body couldn't cope with the lack of blood in it. He died shortly after he was brought in. It was suspected that it was a consensual feeding gone wrong. A vampire friend, or partner, who didn't have the self-control to stop when they should have.

No one came to claim his body.

John, and a few of his doctor friends, attended the funeral the council arranged for the man. He was cremated, and his ashes buried without a marker (as there was no one to pay for one) in the cemetery close to the hospital.

John shrugged off the memory, took out his keys, and let himself and the vampire into the medical bay.

"The files are online," he indicated the laptops, "and there are paper copies, too. They should be identical. Scott’s body isn't here, they repatriated him the next day. We don't have good enough cold storage to keep someone for long."

Sherlock's nostrils flared, and he opened a laptop almost carelessly as he passed it, going to the hard copy drawers as it slowly booted up. 

John stood, feeling a bit stupid. "Should I... Make a tea, or something?"

"You could. Or, you could do something useful and restore the settings to a week ago on that second machine," Sherlock pointed. "If something has been deleted, I'd like to know about it."

John began on the computer as Sherlock fingered through the file cabinet.

"Your typing is horrendously slow,” the vampire commented as he flicked through the paper and card files.

"I don't have much experience on a computer,” John said. “I usually hand-write my notes. Someone else types them up.”

Sherlock said hummed, and picked a file out of the stacks. "Who would an order come from to open fire on the people living close by? The major?" 

"No, sir --Sherlock. Sholto has been meeting with the locals for months to keep up the peace between us. I don’t think any of this is his doing – he has too much to lose on a professional level. I'm not saying you shouldn't investigate, but I just honestly believe he couldn't have done this to one of his men. We're together constantly. We're a family, we watch out for one another."

"Families fight," Sherlock said solemnly as he glanced through the file. "Are you finished?"

"I am, but... It seems that someone altered the documents a few days after the incident. Look, here's the log."

Sherlock strode over, looking over John's shoulder easily and reading the screen. John tried not to flinch, but he couldn’t help tensing up a little. A natural response, he told himself. Perfectly natural to be on alert when your predator is within biting distance.

"Move over," Sherlock ordered, and John did as he was told, getting out of the seat, although not without a scowl. Sherlock sat in front of the desk top. "These files can be easily recovered," he said with a grin. "I just need into the system's mainframe and I can--"

John interrupted. "That's a security breech, Sherlock. You can't--"

"Oh, yes I can. I'm a vampire. No one can touch me. Besides, you want the truth, don't you?"

“Oh, god," John rubbed at his hair. "This could be considered--"

"Don't say treason. Please, don’t say treason. Treason would be allowing the person responsible for an innocent man’s death to go free. Allowing the murderer of your comrade to go unpunished. Am I wrong?"

John's jaw clenched. "No. Fine. Get on with it. But if this comes back on me –”

“You’ll what? Beat me up?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, his pale fingers typing fast on the keys as he hacked past protective software and the system mainframe. "Recover... Files. Today’s date, and counting back… Easy." Sherlock's eyes scanned the screen. "He'd been drinking. The dead man. His alcohol toxicity was missing from the report. By these numbers, he certainly would have been relaxed."

John agreed. “Alcohol is restricted on base. Someone could have stolen some, or else had it smuggled in.”

"No drug use, though. Recreational or medicinal. The bullet that hit him was... Oh. Army grade."

"That doesn't mean anything. Before we went into lockdown we’d have our supplies looted and traded and lost pretty consistently. Army grade bullets are pretty much all there is, around here.”

"Mm. I suppose. It wouldn't be so suspicious if the reports we received had said differently." Sherlock looked up at John, who stared down at him. "I need to talk to the coroner."

John was about to reply when the bell rang, signalling the evening meal time. 

"Oh..." He frowned. "That's the supper bell. We should probably go to that. Well, I should.” He gave the vampire a look. “Do you... eat?"

"No. At least, certainly not anything available in the mess hall," Sherlock snapped. He looked incredibly annoyed. "We’re actually making progress, here. Can't your stomach wait?"

"The coroner will be there anyway," John pointed out. "It's the last time of the day to eat - everyone goes."

"Then I'll wait here."

"You know the major won't let me leave you on your own."

Sherlock made a noise like an irritated cat. "Fine. Fine. Another investigation held up by human bodily functions." He shoved the file under his arm as John cleared the laptop's search history and closed it down. "I'll go to my - our - room."

"Just come to the mess," John sighed, not really wanting the vampire alone with his things. "I know you can drink liquids. And you can get a decent brew. Treat yourself."

"A cup of leaf-water hardly constitutes a treat..." Sherlock muttered darkly as they locked up the medical bay and walked across to the mess.

A few people looked up as they passed - John wasn't the sort of guy to attract attention, normally, but Sherlock stuck out like a sore thumb. He wasn’t in uniform for a start, he was tall and dark and pale, and those red eyes almost seemed to glow. Although it wasn’t a that secret vampires existed, not anymore, they were still regarded as distinctly supernatural, and to be feared.

John wished his heartbeat would calm down, at least.

The mess hall smelled strongly of something spicy, and Sherlock winced as they walked in, before stalking off to plant himself at the furthest table away from the serving area as possible. 

John picked up his tray, and rolled his eyes. Someone tapped his shoulder as he walked along the self-service hatches.

"How's babysitting going?"

John looked up at James. "Oh, hey. Fine. He's a pain in the arse."

"Oh yeah? Already? Should I get jealous?"

"Fuck off," John grinned. "He hates humans. That much is fucking obvious. He's in the wrong job."

James hummed. "It'll come right. There's worse things than investigations."

"Like turning up dead." John chose something vegetarian, with leafy greens, and a chocolate pudding. "He's working fast though, I'll give him that."

"Great. The sooner he's off my base the better." James glanced over his shoulder, and then lowered his voice. "You coming over tonight?"

John hesitated. "Supposed to be bunking with him, aren't I?"

James shrugged, and grinned. "Doesn't have to take long."

"I'll think about it," John said, turning to carry his tray over to where Sherlock was sitting, the file closed in front of him, red eyes flicking over the eating soldiers as if he could read all their secrets.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's eyes scanned the mess of soldiers. They rested on one, who wasn’t making eye contact with anyone at all, eating his dinner in silence. He hadn't even looked up when Sherlock had sauntered into the hall. A conditioned response.

Sherlock kept his eyes off John, as the captain began to sort out his words looking for something to say to break the silence. The captain didn’t like silences, his body language practically screamed it. Sherlock did his best to ignore the man’s loud thought process. Sherlock was used to noise – he was constantly shrouded by it.

He wondered, vaguely, if John knew that Sherlock could hear through four feet of solid concrete, and most definitely across a room. He doubted it.

"So," John began, grasping at straws. "You think the coroner did it?"

Sherlock scowled. "Don't be daft, John. Of course he didn't do it. Just look at him. I do, however, think he was coerced into changing the documentation of the incident."

"I see."

There was another silence as Sherlock continued to stare at who he expected was the coroner.

John cleared his throat. "So… Do you... Sleep? At all?"

Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Never.”

“Oh…”

“Wondering if you'll have time to sneak off for a quick shag with Major Sholto? Don't worry, Doctor Watson. I can do research from the room."

John’s fork slipped in his grasp at the same speed the blood drained out of his face. "How did you-"

"The same way I know that someone in the next room is turning the page of a skin mag," Sherlock clicked his tongue, and drummed his fingers on the table.

"So, you heard-"

"Everything, yes. Don't worry, John. It's not the first time I've been called a pain. I'm perfectly aware of the fact that I'm regarded as unsociable and rude. I've been alive for over 500 years. You learn to have different values."

John swallowed. "So, you weren't always like this?"

"Oh. No, I've always been like this. I just don't value the time I spend in other people's presence."  _Or you don't like to be significant in anyone's life, or have anyone be significant in yours_ , a nasty little voice in Sherlock’s head added.  
John went back to his food. "Great," he said, bitterly.

"Is that the coroner?" Sherlock said suddenly, pointing subtly to the man he'd been eyeing.

John looked. "Yes." He looked like he wanted to ask how Sherlock knew, but he didn't. "Are you going to talk to him."

"Not now. I don't want anyone to be suspicious."

"Okay." John carried on eating, lifting some greens and noodles so a pungent wave of scent was released.

Sherlock scrunched his nose. "That smell is horrendous."

"Well, we can't all live off people's blood." John gave his food what Sherlock suspected was a deliberate stir. "Speaking of... How often do you eat? Or... feed, or whatever you call it.”

"Worried I might suddenly find you absolutely, irresistibly tempting?" Sherlock asked, staring at John directly, with his red eyes, sultry and seductive, letting John know that if he wanted, he could do it in a heartbeat.

John went very, very still.

Sherlock blinked, and switched off his predatory gaze. "Don't worry. That's like assuming your gay friend is automatically attracted to you because you're a man. I have a type. And besides, I don't eat during cases. Much too distracting."

 

*

 

If Sherlock could hear a whispered conversation, he could certainly hear how John's heart started galloping in his chest at the sights of the vampire’s seductive eyes. It wasn't desire - fuck no - it was the sort of guarded fear you got when someone in the room had a gun, but they weren't pointing it at you, quite yet. But they could.

John made a mental note to eat something with less iron in it, next time.

"Well, that's good to know," John said, clearing his throat. "Not a fan of things looming over me in the night without warning."

"So you'd be ok with it if I warned you?"

"Don't be a prick," John pointed with his fork. "Anyway, you said eating is distracting," he forked up some sweet potato, "and you're here to do a job."

Sherlock hummed, already looking between the file and the coroner. "Does he have any enemies? That man."

John chewed, and swallowed. "Not enemies..." he considered. He knew a secret about the man, but it wasn't really his secret to tell. The coroner was transgender, and at his last regiment had been bullied by a couple of men in the regiment, until he was moved. As far as John knew, he'd had no trouble here. John only knew, in fact, because he'd seen scars on the man’s chest when they'd both had to strip off after a particularly bloody injury came in.

John picked up his cup. "He was moved to this regiment because of trouble at his last one. You'd have to ask him about that, though."

Another bell sounded.

Three hours until lights-out, and another two until lockdown.

John suddenly felt exhausted. "Did you want to go back to the lab?"

Sherlock continued to watch the coroner, ignoring John's question. "He doesn't talk to many people, does he?"

John shook his head. "Hardly any. He barely talks to me, and we work together. But he doesn't ignore them, if they open a conversation. He's not unsociable... Just... Shy."

"Not shy, anxious. Chronic anxiety. Hunched shoulders. Uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people. Generally being hunched over like that suggests some sort of physical insecurity."

John stared at Sherlock. 

The vampire went on: "It's hard to get over years of body dysphoria. That's what it is, isn't it? The trouble at his former regiment."

John didn't answer, but he didn't have to. 

"That would be an easy playing card for blackmail."

John just put his cutlery down, and cleared his throat. “Mm.”

Sherlock put his head on one side. "You knew, but you didn't tell me."

"It wasn't my secret to tell. Besides, you... Figured it out."

Sherlock smiled. "Honourable. You don't find that much."

"More often than you think, around here,” John defended his men.

Sherlock scoffed. "You realize I've been alive for a while longer than you have? An honourable human is difficult to find."

"You were a human, too, once."

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes narrowed. He suddenly looked frightening, again, though the look dropped as he spoke. "We can go back to our bunk, now. For tonight, I'll do some more research from my laptop. Tomorrow I'll begin my questioning."

 

*

 

John decided not to go to James, that night. Sherlock would know, and very possibly hear it, and John felt exposed enough as it was.

When they got back to the bunks, John picked up his washbag and towel, and excused himself as Sherlock settled, cross-legged, on his bed, laptop open, and papers neatly lined up on the mattress. He looked more like a student preparing for an all-nighter than a vampire.

A vampire John was going to have to share a room with.

He couldn't help the prickle of fear that settled at the back of his neck. Sherlock was entirely above the law. If he killed John, or drank from his throat, in his sleep, no one could do a thing. John wouldn't be a victim, he would be considered food.

It didn't bear thinking about. Even if Sherlock said John wasn't his type.

That actually felt vaguely insulting, though it should have been reassuring.

"See you in a minute," John said.

"Mm," Sherlock didn't even look up.

John wasn't the only one in the showers. The block was a hastily-constructed breeze-block and plastic affair, with water that was lukewarm at best, but John had had worse. He soaped up, and scrubbed himself clean quickly, ignoring the doubled heavy breathing coming from the other side of his cubicle. There was no such thing as privacy, in the army. He considered running a soap-slick hand over his own semi-erect cock, since he wasn't planning on seeing James, then decided against it. He had a sneaking suspicion Sherlock would know, if he did.

By the time he got back to the room, Sherlock had taken his shoes and socks off, and was typing rapidly on his laptop like a man - vampire - possessed.

"Your bodywash is anti-microbial," he said, as John hung his towel up.

"Yeah, it is," John said. "They like the medical staff to use it, in case we have to leap into action."

"It erases scent."

"I imagine it does," John made a mental note to dose himself in it. "Is that a problem?"

"Not unless you want me to smell you."

"Not in the slightest." John picked up his own laptop, and opened his emails. "Made any headway?"

"Some."

Suspecting that was all he was going to get out of the vampire, John started writing an email to his sister. He couldn't mention the investigation, or Sherlock, so instead he rambled on about the heat, and the food, sending it without any real news. She'd send him an annoyed email back, if she remembered.

He closed the laptop lid, and looked over at Sherlock, still engrossed in his work.

There was nothing for it.

"Getting sorted for bed," John said, loudly.

Sherlock nodded. It was like trying to get a response out of a statue.

John rolled his eyes as he yanked off his t-shirt, and undid his trousers. He saw Sherlock's shoulders still for a moment, then give a tiny shrug as if realising what was going on behind him. John changed into looser boxer-shorts with the efficiency of a man who's been undressing in front of other men for years, before folding his things up and getting under the covers.

Then paused.

"You need the light on?" John had to ask. He always kept a light on. Not the main, overhead lamp. Just a small light. Just... in case. But it seemed more than babyish to ask for a nightlight with someone who didn't know...

"No," Sherlock said. "No, I don't need the light."

"Ok, then. Night." John clicked the naked lightbulb off, and screwed his eyes shut against the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

John woke in a sweat-soaked panic around 2am.

He yelled, throwing the damp sheets off, though they clung to his legs. He scrambled off the mattress, and darted across the room to the wall, before bracing himself against it, and breathing hard. Sweat gathered in the shallow dips of his collarbones, and his fingers flexed and shook.

It had been the same nightmare, again. The one that had given him his own room, as people complained about the yelling and screaming John did in his sleep. The nightmare that couldn’t really be called a nightmare, because it was a memory. The fire, the blood, the gunshots. The first, and only, time he'd been under heavy fire. The first time he'd lost anyone. He'd made it out alive, mostly unscathed bar cuts and bruises. Him, and only two others.

Everyone else was consumed by the fire, the shrapnel, the bursts of leaded death that cut through the dry heat of the desert.

John swallowed hard, throat dry, limbs trembling. His heart was thundering in his chest. He opened his eyes and nearly screamed at the sight of two red ones staring back at him, before he remembered. "Oh, shit," he clamped a hand to his chest. "Shit, fuck. Sorry." He stood straighter. "Sorry... about that." Embarrassment began to creep through him, along with the dissipating fear, and shame.

 

*

 

Sherlock didn't stare at John for more than a moment before he reached to his bedside rack, then paused. "I am going to turn on the lamp," he said, his voice low, pitchless, not excited or nervous. Not a drop of judgement in it, because these were just words of warning to a frightened man.

He heard John swallow, a hot wet noise of verves, then saw him nod. Sherlock’s fingers pressed the switch. The room was illuminated with a fluorescent glow.

John's heartbeat was so fast that it was almost like white noise. He was topless, his skin shining in the low light with sweat, and his legs, bare from the knee, were trembling.

"Should I have woken you?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice at a low volume. "I heard you beginning to stir in your sleep, but... After a while, I thought it best not to interfere, as it can accelerate reactions."

John swallowed again, his head falling back to the wall with a soft thud.

Sherlock stood from his bed and walked to the shallow basin, where he filled up a cup of tepid water. He brought it to John, standing a yard away from the man and holding it at arm’s length, up for him to take, which he did, after a moment, with shaky hands that made him spill a few drops. He took a drink.

"It's my responsibility," John rasped.

"Dreams are no fault of anyone's--"

"Best not to wake me. I tend to get punchy." He drank again, and looked down at himself, apparently self-conscious about his state of undress.

Sherlock shrugged, then turned away from John. "War is difficult on everyone, Captain. I expect you’re not the only soldier here with nightmares. Your guilt does you no good."

"So, what… you're a shrink, now?" Embarrassed, John was on the defensive, as humans often were.

"No, I'm a soldier with experience. As insensitive as it sounds, I often wish I could have nightmares again. My body doesn't let me sleep, and while I'm awake I choose, deliberately, to keep thoughts of the war away. It does no justice to the ones I love, though. It is pure selfishness. I wish I could know real fear again," Sherlock said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. When you wake in a cold sweat, it's only proof that you're surviving against the odds." Sherlock fixed his pillow, then sat back down on his mattress, opening his laptop. "So, go to sleep, John. You can keep the light on, now."

 

*

 

John woke at the dawn trumpets, sitting up instantly like he always did. The covers pooled around his middle, and the morning air was warm against his skin.

The room was empty. 

The lamp was off, and light was coming in through a gap in the blinds. The bed opposite was made neatly.

John exhaled, slowly. Last night had been... Well, awkward, but really it could have been worse. Sherlock hadn't laughed at him, anyway.

Or pitied him.

That had been... ok. There weren't many humans who'd approach you if you were post-nightmare and stood in your pants. Let alone reassure you that you weren't alone, in any sense. Who’d’ve thought that was the sort of treatment you’d get offered by a vampire you were being told to share a room with.

He rubbed a hand over his face, and got up and get dressed. 

 

*

 

John was halfway through his porridge when Sherlock sat down opposite him, a half-drunk mug of tea in his hand. 

"I'll begin questioning, today," he announced. 

"Right," John swallowed thickly. "Questioning the coroner?"

"And the major. And a few others."

"Me?"

"You? You obviously didn't do it," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. He looked paler, today, the harsh sunlight bleaching him out. And his eyes looked a more vivid red, with black around the edges of the iris.

John wondered if he needed to feed. Then quickly pushed the thought away. Sherlock was surrounded by people. Hot, sweating, freshly-washed people. The vampire obviously had amazing self-control. John glanced at the rest of the mess hall. Anyone who wasn't making a big deal about avoiding looking in Sherlock's direction was throwing him fearful glances. 

John realised he'd almost forgotten to be afraid of the predator in front of him. 

Dangerous, that. 

Familiarity was dangerous.

Familiarity meant letting your guard down.

John reached for his own tea. "Do you want me with you? When you question?"

"You're meant to be compiling a report for Major Sholto?”

"That he won't even read," John snorted. Then bit his lip. "I mean... Maybe he won’t read it in depth. He gets busy."

"Not too busy to fuck the recruits?"

John went red. "That's... Really none of your business."

"It certainly is if it influenced the crime in any way," Sherlock smirked. He sat back and steepled his fingers. "It really bothers you? What’s wrong - you don't like it? You don’t like what he does to you?”

"That's a very loaded question, and really not the reason you’re here.” John pushed his breakfast away. "Let's be clear, ok? I don't do anything I don't want to. But that doesn't mean everything I do is top priority. My top priority is my job. Being a doctor. Looking after people. That's what matters. Not who's sticking what into who."

 

*

 

Sherlock hummed. "Then, I suppose we're similar in that aspect. Nothing's ever taken precedence over my job in close to 500 years. Not even food," he smiled, looking away from John.

He suddenly felt empty --not emotionally, but literally.

He was, perhaps somewhat foolishly, running on a few pints from more than a week back. Of course he could control himself, and he would, but John's constant, close, presence made it difficult. He had taken special care not to allow the man's scent into his nose so to avoid any incident, or to hone in on his heartbeat. But it had been so unexpectedly loud the night before, and so quiet in the low light of the room after John's panic. When John finally slept, the steady thump-thump was like a ticking clock, so rhythmic and so constant and enticing… Sherlock had been forced to leave the room they shared. John would have been the perfect prey.

John stared at him, suddenly looking concerned. "Isn't it more dangerous to keep working on an empty stomach."

Sherlock blinked, then looked at the man, his eyes gleaming with danger. "For me or for you?"

John met Sherlock's eyes levelly, but Sherlock could tell from how he tensed that he was suppressing a shudder. "Either."

Sherlock didn't respond, a looming body walking towards him. The detective didn't have to look up to know it was Major Sholto. John broke their eye contact, and looked up.

"Uh oh. Trouble in paradise?" James asked, sounding amused at the thought of the two of them actually getting along. 

John didn't laugh, but he did smile. "No, sir."

Sherlock stood, meeting James' eyes with a glower of his own. "Let's go, John. I need to question the coroner."

James didn't flinch under the vampire’s gaze.

Sherlock turned away from him.

 

*

 

John sat at the desk, paper in front of him to take notes. 

Sherlock let the coroner take a seat, before stepping his fingers, and leaning towards him in a manner that was either predatory or sexy, depending on who was doing it. 

And because a vampire was doing it, it was fucking terrifying. In John’s opinion.

The coroner, Oliver, gripped his trouser fabric in between his fingers, but didn't break eye contact. And John felt a flush of pride for him. 

"You altered some of the documents concerning the dead man," Sherlock said, jumping straight in without preamble.

"Corporal Brooks' file was amended, yes." Oliver looked at John, who didn't make a single expression. He liked the coroner, but this was a serious matter. "It was... We often tidy up files. To make them easier to understand."

"You erased some information."

"I... I was..." Oliver went red, and John could see his hands were shaking. "I didn't change anything about his condition. He was shot dead."

"But the manner by which the bullet entered his body."

"I..." Oliver swallowed. "Am I under arrest?" He looked at John.

"You're under suspicion," Sherlock clarified, drawing Oliver’s attention back. "However… I believe you have been pressured into actions you would not necessarily condone."

John looked up at the soft tone suddenly filtering into Sherlock's voice. It was... Kindly. 

And different. 

John's chest pulled, just a little. 

It was a long time since he'd heard someone sound so unconditionally kind. 

"If you were blackmailed, you need to tell me," Sherlock said. It was clear he could be sympathetic, if he let himself. He’d told John that he didn't like when people were taken advantage of, especially by those in a powerful position. Blackmail was the dirtiest crime there was.

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. 

Sherlock put his head on one side. "I'm aware of your situation. The disadvantage you could be at if it were to get out."

The young soldier across from Sherlock looked pointedly at John, betrayal flashing behind his eyes. 

"Captain Watson didn't tell me. I have your files," Sherlock lied. "Now, tell me who was blackmailing you. We can protect you."

"You can't protect me from the way people will look at me when they find out," Oliver snapped. “There’s nothing you can do about that. I’ll get moved again, like some waste of space, like some… I might as well just quit and be done with all of this.”

Sherlock drew a breath. "Does it not disgust you that someone would put you in such a position? Someone made you an accomplice of a murder, used people's phobic spite to get away with something terrible. Wouldn't you try to save someone else who was put in that position?"

Oliver looked away, then down at his hands, which squeezed together as if he was wringing his muscles. "It..." He took a breath. "Look, you say you can protect me, but you can’t. But still… Look, I was asked to change one detail in the file. By – by Major Sholto. It wasn’t a big detail, it wouldn’t affect a thing, I swear. I wouldn’t have done it if it would have changed anything about Scott’s death. Someone else must have told him to do it, he knows nothing about medical stuff. But Sholto… Please, he can't know that we've spoken. He'll know I told you, he knows I'm weak--"

Sherlock nodded, and stood. "Thank you, Oliver. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll figure something out, to keep you out of this."

"Am I... Am I going to be arrested? Discharged?"

"No. No one has to know you were a part of this," Sherlock promised. "I'll solve it quickly. John, let's go. I need to think."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was a mystery. 

They were outside, Sherlock pacing, John standing with his helmet and bulletproof vest on, hand on his gun, the sun shrouded in cloud, but the heat incredible. 

Despite the discomfort, it felt great to get away from the confines of the base. 

The gun was entirely pointless - Sherlock was bulletproof, and the base was more of less secure. It just made John feel better to keep his hand on it. Protection from what he wasn't entirely sure. 

What was really surprising was the way Sherlock had promised not to get Oliver into trouble. He could have, easily. But he wouldn't. 

There was something almost endearing about that. 

"Are you going to bring Sholto in?" John asked, sick of the pacing. "Just... Oliver did say."

"He'd only lie. And that's tiresome." Sherlock paused, then stepped into the shade with a shudder of relief. 

"But you think he's guilty."

"I need to prove it."

"Don't vampires have a... glamour?" John frowned. He pushed his helmet up. "Charm it out of him."

"Where's the fun in that?" Sherlock rolled his red eyes. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They looked sharper and more dangerous than ever. 

A thrill of cold fear ran through John's insides. He ignored how much he didn’t dislike it. "So... What? You either question him, or find the evidence. The crime's been committed, you can catch him in the act." He stroked his gun with his thumb, hating how useless it would be if Sherlock decided to demote him to 'lunch'. 

 

*

 

Sherlock tried to ignore the way John stroked his gun, but it was useless. Distracting. He looked at the man with a bland face. "Would it comfort you to know that while your bullets won't kill me, they do still hurt. I could feel the impact, but it doesn't penetrate. Doesn't hurt as badly as it would someone else, though. And it wouldn’t slow me down.”

John looked at him, then tilted his chin up. "It's a little comforting."

"You don't trust me at all," Sherlock observed.

"Not an inch."

"Why?"

"Because. I couldn't do anything if you decided I was your next meal. I can’t go against you. It’s infuriating, how everyone has to toe the line except you.”

“I’ve given you my word.”

“Yes…” John glanced away.

"Ah, the word of a vampire means nothing," Sherlock snorted in contempt. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. But why would I?"

John shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's fine, then. I don't need your trust to do my job. You're right, though, I can't catch him in the act, that chance has passed. Obviously. I'll have to talk to him, eventually. He can't be in a position of power if he's compromised. But I don't want to put Oliver in danger. I've given my word he'd be safe. I shouldn't have told Sholto earlier that we were going to speak with him. I should've kept it to myself. It's bad enough he knows we'll know. I'll have to go over his head, though. What if he was threatened as well? So how can I trust anyone?" Sherlock asked himself, beginning to pace again.

"So, you think he killed Scott Brooks?" John asked. 

"I don't know. I doubt it, he seems far too cowardly. I know that Sholto was working on a peace treaty with the locals. Why would he cast away months of work? That doesn't make sense." Sherlock stopped suddenly, closing his eyes and furrowing his eyebrows. "There's too many layers."

"Too much for you?"

"No. It's fascinating. I honestly thought this would be open and close. I need to concentrate. "

 

*

 

Concentrating for Sherlock turned out to be lying prone on his bunk, hands steepled beneath his chin as he stared into space, apparently thinking. 

John found it immensely creepy. He typed up what he had in way of a daily report, and saved it to his own drive before looking over at Sherlock. 

Same position, not even breathing. 

God, it was weird. 

After vampires had made themselves known to be more fact than fiction, the whole concept of Death had been brought into question numerous times. Vampires had no need to respire, no heartbeat, no necessary excretory system. They ate, and had electrical activity in their brains. But lacked the other requirements for being alive. They couldn't even reproduce without a 'host', so to speak - their entire biology was baffling. 

Even so, Sherlock looked very, very dead lying there. Like he was sinking in on himself.  But almost elegantly. John felt almost compelled to lean over and inspect him, like a cadaver. Or a sleeping beauty. 

"Go and find something to do," the vampire's voice made John jump. "You're thinking. And it's annoying. And loud."

"Right," John didn't bother denying it. "I'll see you later, then?"

No reply. 

John picked up his washbag, and closed the door behind him. 

 

*

 

"Your bloodsucker mate thinks I did it, then?" James looked down at John. 

John didn't answer- he couldn't, as it happened. The shower overhead thrashed down water, spraying off James' body straight into John's face, adding to the lack of air he had access to as it was. 

"Don't know why they're not asking why he's taking so long. What did the coroner say?" James relinquished his grip on John's head and allowed him to gasp. 

"Fuck... Not much," John flexed his jaw. "You know what he's like. Quiet. Why? You got something to hide?"

"Shut up," James pulled John's jaw down, his thumb pressing on John’s tongue, before resuming his actions. "It's just my concern. It's my base."

John could feel James' cock hardening further in his mouth, and he had no desire to choke. He gripped the base suddenly, pulling off against the force of James' hands, and pulled him through his orgasm. Come splattered onto John's chest and neck. 

"Fucking tease," James pulled him upright. "What's up? You don't want to swallow anymore?"

"I needed oxygen, you bastard," John avoided a kiss. "You can't actually suffocate me, you know."

"Sorry. Thought you liked being manhandled."

"There's manhandled and there's dying," John sighed, stepping away. The ejaculate on his body was washed away down the drain. "I'm going back. Unless you wanted anything else?"

"No," James shrugged. "Maybe give yourself a proper wash though. Don't want to head back to your vampire mate stinking of come, do you?"

John grit his teeth, and grabbed the shower gel. 

 

*

 

Sherlock arose as soon as John had safely left the bunk, taking nothing with him as he vanished into thin air, reappearing in the office of Major Sholto. He glanced around his surroundings. The Major kept a very neat room, that was for sure. There weren't any personal artefacts --that was safer, he suspected.

Sherlock stepped over the rug, his footsteps light, not that it would have mattered. He could disappear without a trace by the time anyone suspected something. He manoeuvred around the desk, sitting at the large man's chair and glancing over his monitor. It had a minimal desktop setup, and Sherlock suspected that Sholto, too, was not well versed in modern tech. He had his email set up, and a few other military-based programs that Sherlock suspected were required. 

He opened the man's email. Not many were of importance --at least to Sherlock. His thin fingers tapped on the keys, accessing any deleted files from this computer. 

Now, there held something interesting. 

A deleted email, from an anonymous sender. Not much was anonymous, to Sherlock. 

It read as follows:

 

**Scott Brooks' death was an accident. The coroner must be persuaded.**

 

**< Attached: image file.>**

 

Sherlock opened the image, which was a photograph of the major, who appeared to be in a position that was distinctly compromising, and with one of the local troops at that. It was not condemning, by any court of law, but enough so that he might be discharged, if the right people were persuaded.

The vampire did a little of quick, rudimentary hacking to find the router position which the email came from, and was pleased to see that it remained within the base. He smiled to himself, then sat back from the computer and stood, thinking briefly about finding Oliver's documents, but there was only so much he could do with them. Sherlock couldn't debunk a rumour when grown men and women began to spread them.

He sighed, and vanished from the locked office, reappearing in his own and John's bunk, only moments before John came in through the door, freshly showered, freshly dried, and freshly... Sherlock barely had to draw breath before he smelt it. He rolled his eyes as John jumped at the sight of him, standing.

"You're up, then," John said awkwardly.

"Yes, while you were in the showers satisfying your more primal urges with an unsatisfying blow-job with one of our primary suspects, if not then at least an accomplice, I've been working."

John's mouth flapped uselessly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. The captain stood for a moment before his countenance looked decidedly angry. "Listen, you absolute prick, just because we can't all be celibate doesn't mean I'm not dedicated to solving this case with you. You told me to go and find something to do, so I did. If anything, you sound jealous. It's not my fucking fault you've not had a shag since the dark ages," John said, rather bravely, Sherlock provided him. 

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to look offended. "I have so had a…" Sherlock supplied, his own features resolving from surprise to dangerous restraint.

This was not going somewhere Sherlock typically allowed.

But John, he would admit, minus the scent of Major Sholto's still faintly present even after a good scrubbing, was very pleasing to Sherlock's senses, now that he took a moment to realize it. 

"Seriously? You expect me to believe that? Seems to me like the only way you’d get to do that is if you were playing with your food," John responded angrily, looking as though he immediately regretted his decision to retort. 

Sherlock took a stride forward, and John shuffled back a step out of fear until Sherlock was looming over him anyways. Their eyes did not part. "And how, John, do you know that?”

John shoved past Sherlock. "I don't. I didn't mean it, arse." John brought piece of the towel around his neck to dry the back of his hair as he rummaged around in his things. 

Sherlock grinned as his eyes followed John. 

 

*

 

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he put his washbag away, and fished out some clean pyjama bottoms. The gaze made John's skin prickle, and he felt as if the backs of his knees might be sweating, though they didn't feel wet. He swallowed, hyper-conscious of the fact Sherlock could hear the warm, wet sound, and the way John's heart had started hammering. He tried to think of something that wasn’t blood, or sex.

"So... you've been working?" He turned, flinching minutely at Sherlock's proximity. He was close, and his deep red eyes were fixed on John's face, a smile playing at his mouth. 

The prickling feeling at John's knees got worse. 

"Changing the subject, John? Are you nervous?"

"You... know damn well you make me nervous," John said, trying to sound brazen, and failing. 

Sherlock stepped half a step closer, and John's chest tightened as his stomach clenched. Sherlock's behaviour didn't seem predatory. It was... almost seductive. 

Maybe actually seductive. 

"Why?" Sherlock asked gently, head slightly on one side. 

John picked his lips apart before answering. "Because... I never know what you're going to do. And... I can't say no, to you, can I?"

"Not true," Sherlock said. "You can say no..." he leaned down, enough for John's heart to do something that felt cold and sharp. "...I don't have to listen. But I'd make an effort to."

John could barely look him in the eye. He glanced down between them - his fatigues were far too close to Sherlock's suit trousers - and back up again. "It still works, then?" He asked, raising his eyebrows, cockiness a defence mechanism as well as something else, now. 

Sherlock smiled, and raised a hand, bringing it close to John's face, his fingertips brushing down John's throat, resting on his active pulse. "Your Dark Ages assessment wasn't quite accurate. And neither was your food-play. That’s not generally how I operate."

"Then what-" John's words were cut off by the simultaneous grip on his throat, and a dangerously crushing kiss on his mouth. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The kiss was not like Sherlock expected it to be, in the best possible way. Although he wanted to experience the physical contact, he did not expect to immediately want John, completely, and undeniably.

But he did.

He wanted to claim him, wanted to feel the pulse of his beating heart on his tongue. It was more than simple hunger, though that had its own part to play… it was possession. John had played away. Sherlock needed to own him.

John's lips tasted of James, which irked Sherlock even more than it ought to have, but part of him didn't care.

These lips were his, now. 

Sherlock urged John's mouth to open, and the man obliged with a moan. John’s hands skittered from Sherlock’s arms to his sides and back again in tense confusion. The kiss deepened further, Sherlock possessing John’s mouth like it was his to explore, his tongue dragging to taste. Sherlock stepped forward until John was forced against the wall. The vampire gave a grunt of satisfaction as John's tongue worked its best against his. It wasn't languid, it was fast and unceremonious. 

John broke the kiss, panting, his chest heaving against Sherlock's as the vampire’s fingers traced up his neck, to his jaw-bone, gripping tight and raising the man’s chin out of the way to attack John's neck. He kissed hard, and then bit.

No fangs. Not yet.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck." John's pulse hammered against the thin covering of skin as Sherlock dragged his tongue across it, and sunk his teeth around the artery. The action didn’t draw blood, but raised it, bruising to the surface as he sucked. John’s pulse went wild as he scrabbled at the wall behind him. "Okay. Hold on, fuck. Sherlock, please. I don't know if...” He gave a sort of breathless laugh. “I thought I wasn't your type."

"I said I had a type. Not that you weren't it," Sherlock said lowly. His mouth was practically watering. He really shouldn't indulge. It was such a distraction, and he had already overstepped the mark. But he could control it, if he had to.

John smiled, and it sent all thoughts of walking away out of Sherlock’s head.

Almost entirely.

"I won’t. If you tell me no, I won't do it,” he amended. "It takes trust, and… you don't even like me." He released John's jaw, his hands instead feeling up John's firm torso, his fingertips raising red marks where they pressed into the skin. "It can enhance the experience, if you're open to it, but panic can cause fainting."

John swallowed. He had rarely been so torn. Sherlock kissed like a professional, and his body was hard and unrelenting against John's, but still he was offering the chance to refuse. It seemed very… un-vampire-ish. John felt something give in his in-built defences.

John was naturally sexually submissive - something he kept more or less to himself in the army, where men were in one constant low-level battle for dominance. John didn't give way to bullies or to any amount of pressure in his day to day job, but James Sholto was right... John did enjoy being manhandled. He enjoyed being told what to do, where to be, how fast to go, how much to swallow, and being restrained was more than alright.

But this – this fierce press on his frame against the wall was normally exactly what he wanted. But Sherlock’s eyes were glowing a deep unblinking red, and the kisses he’d left on John’s skin still burned... John's body, usually happy to be held still and restrained and even hurt...

He was afraid. He had to admit that to himself. He was scared.

Pleasure from vampire bites wasn't a secret - someone humans actually sought it out, though they tended to live rather fleeting lives. Vampires did not appreciate being the subject of a fetish. But the heady rush people sought also fired up other bodily responses.

Sherlock was right. If John was frightened, he could faint. And he did not want to lose consciousness. 

John swallowed again. "If we're going to do this," he said, "I don't want to be afraid. And right now, I am. I want... this, but not... that." He glanced at Sherlock's parted lips. "Not this... time."

Sherlock blinked, then gave a tiny nod. "Very well..." he leaned close, and ran his nose down John's throat, inhaling. "...under what circumstances would you welcome it?"

John shuddered at the touch. Then had an idea. "S-solve the case. Solve it, and you can... do your thing. Bite me."

A vampire’s smile pressed against John’s skin. "Oh, John. I'll be biting you no matter what," Sherlock said lowly, taking John's lips as he lifted the man onto his hips with arms that were strong, though not painfully rough.

John groaned, wrapping his arms and legs immediately around Sherlock, breaking the kiss as he was held against the wall, Sherlock attentions going back to his neck as John moved to work at Sherlock's shirt. 

"Just no blood," John said breathlessly, moaning as Sherlock put another mark on his jaw, pressing himself between the man's legs as John hurriedly shoved Sherlock's sleeves down, moaning softly as he ran his hands over Sherlock's chest. Cold, firm, but very welcome. Wanted.

Needed.

Sherlock gave a noise of approval at the compromise, rutting his hips against John, breaking himself away from the temptation of his veins, watching as John threw his head back, gripping Sherlock's hair as he rolled his hips. Sherlock could read the man like an open book.

If John only knew what an act of submission it was to give your veins over to someone, then perhaps he wouldn't trade Sherlock in this way.

As it was, Sherlock had agreed not to indulge. So, he pulled John from the wall, walking them to one of the bunks, where he lay John down. He spread the man’s legs and settled between them, leaning up and taking John’s lips as Sherlock fingered the hems of his boxers. 

"I'm getting closer. To solving the case," Sherlock rumbled, dragging his lips over John's chin as he pushed his hand beneath John's boxers.

John gasped.

"I took a moment to do some of my own investigation. Whilst you were... Let us say, _taking care_ of your major. Tell me, did he take care of you?" 

John moaned as Sherlock gripped his cock. He didn't respond, just went red, and averted his eyes.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock demanded, biting John's earlobe. "Did he make you come?"

John shook his head. 

"Mm. I thought not." Sherlock continued to stroke John’s cock with a loose grip as he turned his lips to John's abdomen, scraping his teeth and dragging his tongue. "Anyway," he said, as he carelessly let go of John's erection and ripped apart the man's pants. He tossed the useless fabric to the floor. "I let myself into his office. I found an email," Sherlock continued, running his cool fingertips up John’s torso, then scraping down as he dragged his teeth up the man's erection. "The idiot doesn't even clear his files. Amateur."

John gave a choke of pleasure as Sherlock's nips turned into a firm lick up the back of his cock, sucking softly as he reached the tip.

"He didn't murder the soldier, but he was told to have the files changed. The email was sent from somewhere on the base. Lubricant?"

John fumbled for it, and handed the tube over quickly, quite enjoying how Sherlock's attentions to him seemed secondary to his crime-solving narrative. 

"We get p- oh god -" John caught his breath as the first finger slid inside him, "people coming onto base - just - all the time -"

"Hm," Sherlock's first finger was joined by a second, and John gripped the bedsheets. 

This was intimate. He was used to quickly fingering lube up his own arse before turning around and having his head yanked back by the hair. Or (as happened once on a stakeout) being fucked raw with only spit and promises to make it any easier. This was still submissive, but it was like a luxury version. 

Nice. 

"Who came to the base around the time of Brooks' death?" Sherlock started pumping his fingers in and out, curling and twisting both in search of John's prostate as he scraped his teeth over John's stomach, leaving red marks all over his skin. 

"Lots... trying to sort a cease fire - god that's... just there... fuck -" John grit his teeth as Sherlock either missed or deliberately avoided his prostate. He huffed out a breath. "Couple stayed for longer after Scott died. Colonel Jane Mathers - she's a... Christ, Sherlock, please..."

"And who else?" Sherlock swirled his tongue over the hot tip of John's cock. 

John let out a sob. "Fuck! Major-General David Patterson. Nice guy. Got Oliver transferred here. I can't see him being -" John's words dissolved into a blur of swear-filled moans as Sherlock finally rubbed against his prostate, and simultaneously sucked at his throbbing erection. 

A reward, then. 

"Oh!" John gasped as the fingers inside him were withdrawn, and Sherlock stood to unbuckle his own belt. John flushed red with anticipation, and started to turn onto his front. 

A firm hand at his hip stopped him. 

"Stay on your back, John," Sherlock said. “I don’t need you to present to me, and I don’t want you to hide your face. This isn’t something I’m taking from you, it’s something we’re sharing.”

John blinked, in surprise.

But not for long.

The vampire - his eyes so deep a red they looked black - climbed up again, and effortlessly pulled John's legs over his own pale shoulders, yanking him forward to swiftly impale the soldier on his slicked-up and impressively large cock in a single thrust.

John would later put the yell he made down to surprise.

Sherlock smiled down at John, lifting a hand to press over his mouth as he leaned down. John's arms gripped around his shoulders and curled into his hair.

Sherlock kissed John's neck as he rolled his hips, pleasure washing over him. "I, unlike Major Sholto, do not revel in others hearing what my partner sounds like when I fuck them," he said nonchalantly, sinking his teeth into John's clavicle. John moaned against Sherlock's iron grip over his mouth, rutting his hips against Sherlock's stomach. "You will keep your voice down. For now."

The captain nodded, and Sherlock released his grip only to slip two fingers back into the wet heat of John's mouth. He pulled his hips back and slammed ruthlessly back into him, his cock throbbing with pleasure.

John let out a choked sound through his nose as his lips closed around Sherlock's fingers, sucking unceremoniously, breathing heavily as Sherlock set a relentless pace. 

The vampire’s lips trailed down John's chest. The soldier was very fit. The muscle beneath his skin was healthy and very present. Sherlock bit into his pectoral, and John whimpered, blood rushing to his cock. He was still moaning, though trying his best to keep the noise level to a minimum. 

Sherlock pulled his fingers, dripping with saliva, from John's lips. He leaned up to kiss him as his wet hand wrapped around John's cock. John's tight heat was pulling him in, draining his self control, especially once he had glimpses of the red blood he'd drawn to the surface of the man’s skin. His tongue swept John's mouth, swallowing his moans as Sherlock angled his hips to meet John's prostate.

John's nails scraped down Sherlock's back, his legs tightened around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock shuddered, feeling himself beginning to lose control of his senses. It really had been too long, even if his last time wasn't exactly in the dark ages, it had been a fair few years. Sherlock didn't take a sexual liking to very many humans, and his kind were not appealing to him as partners. "John," Sherlock breathed, giving a noise of pleasure as John tightened around him again, his entire body taut as if he might snap.

"Yeah," John breathed. "Oh, fuck, yes. So close..."

Sherlock dropped his head to the crook of John's neck, breathing in his scent. Iron and antiseptic soap and sweat. It was intoxicating. Sherlock was drunk on his own ability to resist a bite. He looked down at John's prick, red and dripping and perfect. It only took a touch and another press against John's prostate to undo him, and the man was coming over his stomach and letting out a string of curses along with Sherlock's name. Sherlock came shortly after, the hot liquid sensation of his abdomen releasing as Sherlock groaned, spilling into John with a final slam of his hips. His hands gripped the thin mattress so hard that it was torn. He stayed there for a moment, his curly hair sticking to John's chest as it heaved beneath him. 

After the moment was over, Sherlock sat up, pulling out of John, which induced a shudder from the man, who went limp onto the mattress, one leg hanging off the side, arms splayed and cock limp.

The bell rang for dinner.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the mess he’d made of the man, at the bruises running from his abdomen to his jaw. "You should go eat, John," he smirked.


	8. Chapter 8

If John hadn't been a medical man, he would have been positive it was possible to drop dead from shame. Even with his just-slightly-too-tight beige t-shirt pulled on, you could see the bruises on his jaw, neck and arms. He was a walking advertisement down to the mess hall, and he kept his eyes looking dead ahead as he walked.

Thank god there wasn't a fanged bite-mark on his throat, though there were plenty of red patches where ordinary teeth had had their turn of attack. 

John had cleaned up and excused himself from Sherlock, who looked divine when shirtless and languid on his own (clean and unabused) bunk. The soldier half-hoped he could pass off the marks as Sholto's doing. Or maybe a fight, though that could result in an investigation or disciplinary. Anything might be better than someone _asking._

He walked to the mess hall uneasily, but didn't get a single odd glance, for which he was pleased. He scraped something onto his tray and chose to sit on the same table as Oliver, who gave him a quick once over and small smile of gratitude before going back to his book and his food. 

John focussed on his meal, and, when he was halfway through his plate, practically forgot about the bruises on his skin. But, it wasn’t to last.

Someone heavy sat down beside him on the bench. "The fuck?"

John put his fork down. "Major."

Sholto grabbed John's t-shirt front and yanked him around to face him.

Oliver stood quickly, and half-ran from the confrontation, though John was sure James hadn't even noticed him. 

"What the fuck, John?" James’ eyes raked over the mess of bruises. "Please tell me you've been in a fight."

"Is that what you want to hear?" John asked, blandly. 

"You didn't."

John slapped his hand off his shirt. "It's none of your business."

James did a deliberate check for a bite. "You're letting that walking corpse stick it in you? Necrophilia, is it now?”

"If I did let him, what would you care?" John raised his eyebrows, brazen through his embarrassment, though his cheeks were on fire.

James shook his head, pitying. "My god. He's got you under a spell. You realise that, don't you?"

"You're jealous?"

"At least I don't have to fucking glamour you to fuck you."

"At least he lets me come," John shot back. 

There was a nasty silence. 

James glared. "You'd better hope he solves this case before someone stakes him. Captain Watson," he grabbed John's shirt again, pulling him close. "You're still mine."

 

*

 

Sherlock had watched John leave, sincerely wishing he hadn't given into temptation, but also put in the odd position of not quite regretting it.

He didn't usually do that.

He regretted most things to do with humans in his life time, be it killing them or befriending them. He did not care what humans thought of him, and it was in his best interest for it to remain that way. Humans caused devastation wherever they put their greedy hands.

Knowing that John actively didn't like him, though, caused Sherlock some distress, though he would deny it if anyone should ask. He didn't quite know why, yet. He found nothing special about John. Certainly, he had enjoyed holding him, fucking him. He liked the smell of him. He liked how proud John was, but not proud enough to deny that he was afraid of Sherlock, or that Sherlock was clever, though that was obvious.

He didn't lie, either. Not yet.

Sherlock snarled at himself as he sat up. This was exactly why he shouldn't have done that. Distraction. He stood, and yanked on the rest of his clothes without the usual care, slamming the door to the bunk as he left. He stormed down the halls until he reached the cafeteria, annoyed at himself, but not yet murderous. He saw John, and, to his dismay, Major Sholto.

Sherlock hardly had to tune his ears over the sparse noise in the cafeteria to here Sholto's hissed words. 

"You'd better hope he solves this case before someone stakes him. Captain Watson." Sholto grabbed John's shirtfront. "You're still mine."

Sherlock's eyes darkened as he strolled over to the drama, standing behind the major. John's eyes showed a very muted, almost indifferent indignance until they flickered to Sherlock, when they widened in something that might have been shock, or warning.

It didn’t matter either way.

"Stake me?" Sherlock asked, smiling. "Have you been watching too many films on your government monitored computer, Major? My skin is impenetrable."

James leapt a mile, and let go of John's shirt, snarling as he turned to Sherlock. "Not when it's burning, it isn’t.”

Sherlock laughed. "I am not afraid of death, Major Sholto. I've been waiting for it for over half a millennia. If you'll excuse us, John and I have work to do."

Sholto’s fist gripped at John’s shoulder, though the doctor didn’t flinch. "Not while he's under your spell. He's coming with me."

Sherlock's smile fell. "While he's under my what?"

"Your glamour. He wouldn't fuck you while he's in his right mind?"

"Oh, fuck off, James," John intruded.

"No, no, John. He's very right to be concerned about your well-being," Sherlock said, with an edge to his voice.  "But we all would know if John was under a glamour."

"How's that?"

"It feels very peculiar, I assure you. But you're not likely to believe me, so I'll just show you." Sherlock met the Major's eyes, his own darkening wildly, his demeanour shifting to more danger than amusement. "Stop talking, and go stand beneath the water in the showers. Stay there until your fingers are pruned. Then go to your bunk, and go immediately to sleep. Dream of your wrongdoings. When you wake up, you'll be yourself again." 

He stepped aside as the major's eyes clouded over, and he did as he was told, walking slowly from the cafeteria, like a zombie.

John stood up in shock. "Sherlock--"

"It will break once he wakes up. It's like going into a coma. How insulting. To think I would need to do that to get _anyone_ to sleep with me," Sherlock scoffed, turning away from John. "I need Colonel Jane Mathers' files."

 

*

 

John followed Sherlock if only to escape from the eyes watching him out of the room. Christ, this was embarrassing. He never should have had sex with Sherlock. It was so stupid of him - _stupid stupid stupid_ \- and now James knew and probably Oliver as well, and Sherlock was acting as though they'd done little more than shake hands as they went into the computer lab and fired up the least old of the machines. 

"You really shouldn't have done that," John said, pulling open a filing cabinet as Sherlock  started typing. "I'll pay for that, tomorrow."

"Pay?" Sherlock didn't look up. 

"Yes, pay," John started flicking through the folders. "He's a shit most of the time, and this is going to go down like a fucking lead balloon."

"Why do you spend time with him if you dislike him so much?" More typing. 

John sighed. He'd asked himself the same question many times. "I guess because when it started it was just... I don't know. Release. I didn't even think I liked men, at that point."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Labels."

"Right. But yeah... stuff happened, and then we ended up shagging. And just... never stopped. I don't like him. As a person. But he's always there."

"Even if he doesn't let you come," Sherlock finally looked up. 

John grit his teeth. "That's... he thinks we've got some sort of dom-sub think going on. Which is just ridiculous. He hasn't the faintest idea what that should entail aside from watching bad porn. But you heard him. He thinks he owns me. He really fucking doesn't."

Sherlock snorted. "Thank you for that history that I certainly did not ask for."

"You asked why I keep seeing him."

"A brief reply would have done. And anyway, I seem to have gained access to the files," Sherlock spun the monitor around. "Colonel Mathers is rather more invested in keeping this conflict going than she ought to be."

John came forward, and looked at the screen. A certificate stated back at him. A certificate of stock ownership. Investment in a company John recognised as supplying weapons to the regiment. And the owner of the stock was a Clnl J. Mathers.

Sherlock sat back, and steepled his fingers. "I have a motive, I have an email, I have probable cause of death confirmed by the multiple layers of deception. All I need is concrete evidence. If we're to do things the legal way," he shrugged.

"You haven't been doing things the legal way since you got here."

"Following rules is boring, and time consuming. I much prefer to make my own way. The way I've been doing it over 500 years."

John watched as Sherlock turned the computer screen back around.

"I'll be out of yours and Major Sholto's hair permanently very soon. No more babysitting for you," Sherlock said into the screen before reaching to pick up a landline telephone and dialling the number.

"Not that I actually helped much." John looked at Sherlock. "Though, even with us… yeah… you've not been as terrifying as I thought you'd be. Most of the time."

Sherlock didn't respond, but listened to the other end of the line ring until it was picked up. He put it on speaker. "This is Patterson."

"Major General James Patterson."

"That's me. Who's this?"

"This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm --"

"The detective working on Scott's case. Have you gotten any leads? Such a terrible thing."

"Yes. I'd like for you to take Colonel Jane Mathers into custody, if you will. I would like to question her."

"Jane Mathers? Good god, do you think she's involved?"

"Yes, I do. Will you take her into custody?"

"Of course. Anything that'll help solve this case. I'll have her brought to the base as soon as possible. Will tomorrow morning work?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell Sholto that he should be expecting visitors."

"I'm sure he'll be ecstatic," Sherlock said. "Thank you." He hung up the phone, not looking to John, but back to the computer.

A silence passed between them as Sherlock scanned through the documents again, unnecessarily. "Why did you have sex with me?" Sherlock broke the silence, finally looking John in the eye. "You don't like me, and certainly not in an affectionate way. You haven't since I came here. Were you afraid I wouldn't stop if you told me no?"

"What? No," John said immediately.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I think you wanted a way out of your relationship with James. I think you secretly wanted to stir things up so you'd have a reason."

"I didn't! You honestly think I'm that clever anyway?"

"I think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for," Sherlock turned back to the screen, irritated with himself.

John stared. Was that a compliment? It felt like a compliment. Not many people said John was smart, even though he had two degrees - political science and medical - and spoke three languages. To most people, John was just glorified cannon fodder- a soldier who could patch up other soldiers. 

"Thank you," he said, trying to sound casual. He shifted on the linoleum. Then puffed out a breath. "I had sex with you because I wanted to. I was... I wanted to get off, and you're very attractive, and... yeah. Maybe it wasn't a great decision for either of us as we have to work together, but I don't regret it."

Sherlock looked up. "You could have gotten yourself off, you realise."

"Where's the fun in that when there's someone you fancy in front of you?" John muttered, going red. He touched a disconnected keyboard, running his fingers over the keys, listening to the faint clatter. "And you're not entirely right, you know. I don't know about _liking_ you, but I respect you enough after these few days. You were kind to Oliver, and you didn't make a big deal about me freaking out at night, and you're a stickler for getting to the truth. So, I respect you. Even if I don't really understand you."

Sherlock looked at the screen, silent for a long moment before touching the mouse. "I'm not kind."

"I think you can be. Maybe you're not as a rule, but that hardly matters. It matters who you're kind to."

Sherlock stood, his eyes peering through John as he stepped towards the man. "You… you make me remember what it was like to be human."

"Is that bad?"

"No," Sherlock said, then amended himself. "Not always. Perhaps it's time I remembered. I have ignored the pieces of my past that have shaped me for far too long."

John stated evenly at Sherlock. "What happened to you?"

"I was betrayed. I didn't ask for this life. Someone I cared for... Someone I loved... They set me in the path of a rabid man, who turned me into what I am now, all to protect themselves. They thought I would die. I... I could never decide who I despised more, after that. When the war came, I fought against the humans, but only because I was still angry. Now I don't know whose side I would choose," Sherlock said softly.

"Who betrayed you?"

"Their name no longer matters."

"It doesn't matter to you?"

"She's long dead," Sherlock said.

"Why are you telling me this?" John asked. 

Sherlock stared at the man, then shrugged. "Because I'll be gone soon, I suppose. I suppose once every five hundred years it's all right if someone knows a little about me."

"You're going to let me see through you and then leave?” John stared. He couldn’t beliee it. “You're a coward."

"I never pretended to be brave. I've been a coward for a very long time. But you won't miss me, so it doesn't matter."

John thought for a moment, looking between them, at how close they were. He didn't look Sherlock in the eye this time. "Do you want someone to miss you?"

Sherlock almost laughed, but instead he turned away. "Don't be absurd. You should get a good night's rest. We'll question Jane Mathers tomorrow."

"Sherlock. Why are you a detective?"

Sherlock prickled, his back stiffening. He was silent for a while. "Atonement." He swallowed, recalling all the blood. Her blood. There was so much. "Good night, John."


	9. Chapter 9

John clicked the soft lamp on in their shared room that night, knowing for sure that if Sherlock came back to the room, he wouldn't mind. 

It was strange, knowing that. 

James would have sneered at him. Other partners would have looked at him in bewilderment. If John even told then. Which he rarely did. There was a reason he often preferred a quickie in the showers, or in someone else’s room.

He didn't mind Sherlock knowing.

He didn't even fear for what might happen if Sherlock came back into the room in the middle of the night. They had an agreement, after all. No biting until the case was closed. John trusted the vampire to stick with it. 

Trusting a vampire.

How things had changed so much in such a short space of time.

John got into bed, and lay staring at the low ceiling for a moment, before giving in and taking a sleeping pill. He needed rest, even if it was artificial. And if he drugged himself, he wouldn’t dream.

Tomorrow would be stressful - being there when a superior (hell, almost everyone's superior) was questioned.

Not to mention dealing with James. 

John swallowed the pill, and lay back on the pillow. His thoughts wandered as the drug took effect.

Sherlock... betrayed. Sherlock dying. Sherlock turned, against his will.

John tried to imagine how the vampire had looked, in fashions 500 years past, what colour his eyes might have been, how much pink had been in his cheeks. 

John fell asleep, trying to dream up the colour Sherlock's real eyes. 

 

*

 

"John, wake up."

John forced himself conscious, barely registering that it was morning, trying to get his brain into gear. "Time...sit?"

"Almost seven. What have you taken?"

"Just a zoppie," John sat up, feeling as though he'd left his head on the pillow. "Fuck, my head."

"You look awful," Sherlock shook his head as he watched him. "You don't need those drugs."

"I wanted to make sure I got some sleep..." John yawned so widely he almost dislocated his jaw. "Fucking hell. Coffee."

"You've got an hour before the major gets here," Sherlock snapped, hauling him to his feet. "Get going."

 

*

 

Sherlock waited for John to get ready in the mess hall, drumming his fingers on the table as he watched everyone bustle about. Most soldiers had left, onto their duties before the Colonel and Major General James Patterson arrived, and the kitchen crew were cleaning hurriedly, as if there was an inspection. 

When John came in, he still looked like shit, though less noticeable to those who hadn't seen him earlier. He spoke to the chef, who gave him a cup of strong coffee before he walked over to Sherlock. Sherlock watched him with an irritated eye as John sat down.

"What," John said, matching his irritation. 

"If you couldn't sleep, you should have told me, you idiot," Sherlock said sharply.

"And what were you going to do? Sing me a lullaby. I can take care of myself." John took a drink of his coffee, and winced. It was not the way he liked it.

Sherlock wished he didn’t care. "I have the ability to induce a sleep better and safer for you than those pills you take. You would have woken feeling much less like you've been run over by a tank."

John shrugged. "It's fine, I'm up now. What are you so snippy about? You seem overly tense. I thought you were confident in your deductions? It's not like you to be stressed out."

"Like me," Sherlock repeated, narrowing his eyes at John. "Not like me to be irritated you could be in the process of sabotaging our investigation today by supplementing sleep with chemicals?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like shit. I'll do the interrogation by myself."

John stared at him, then blinked and his expression turned to an irritated disbelief. "Like hell, you will."

"As he said, like hell you will," A voice said from behind Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and turned to face Major Sholto, who stood looming over them, in an attempt to look threatening. "I'll be in the interrogation room."

"Like hell you will," Sherlock repeated with a smile. "Major Sholto, I'm very sorry to inform you that you will have no part in this investigation from this point forward as I have evidence of your participation of this crime."

John couldn’t look up, mortification flooding from every sleep-deprived inch of him.

Sherlock wasn't sorry at all.

"What evidence?!" James shouted, shoving Sherlock at the shoulder. "John, tell me. I'm ordering you to tell me."

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. "As you're currently under investigation, you have no rank over Captain Watson. He doesn't have to tell you anything. Once James Patterson gets here, you'll be relieved from your duties until the court case. After that, who can say."

"This is bullshit. You fucking bloodsucker," James shouted, grabbing Sherlock bodily by the collar and pulling him from his seat on the bench. Sherlock let him, their eyes meeting.

"James!" John shouted, standing from the table. He didn't sound worried for Sherlock, which was smart of him. He was worried for the major.

"Your pride is commendable, Major Sholto, but perhaps it's not the best idea to meet my eyes. Did you like being under my glamour? Fascinating."

"Shut the fuck up," James snarled, looking murderous. “I’m not afraid of you.”

"I wouldn't let that sort of bravado get a hold of you,” Sherlock said. “It wouldn't make for a fair fight.” He lifted a hand to where James held his shirt front.

He squeezed until he heard the creak of bones and the quickening of James' breath. The man released Sherlock’s clothes and pulled his arm free, immediately swinging a fist at Sherlock. Sherlock took the hit on the jaw like a feather-touch. Then, quicker than John or James could comprehend, Sherlock had the major by his neck, his feet dangling from the ground. 

"Sherlock," John said cautiously. “Sherlock, relax…”

"He hit me first."

"What, are you 5? It didn't bloody hurt. Let him go. He can't do anything to you."

That sparked a fury in James eyes as he clawed at Sherlock's hand, his face going red from a lack of oxygen. Sherlock sniffed, then slowly let the major down, sighing as he coughed, then heaved on the floor, gasping and pulling at his collar to loosen it.

Sherlock turned, lifting his head as he heard the horns sound over the faint sound of an engine approaching, tires kicking up sand. "They're here. Come on, John. Let's get this over with."

 

*

 

John had to follow, as much as it pained his inner doctor to leave someone in the state James was in. He scurried after Sherlock, grateful for the caffeine finally hitting his system, and wishing he’d at least had something to eat - his blood sugar would crash before midday, he was sure of it. 

And that was without… losing some blood.

 _Hm_ , said his brain, _and you promised Sherlock he could bite you when he solved the case. And now you’re going to taste like stale bread. What a winner. A real delicacy, you’re going to turn out to be_.

He couldn’t help wincing at the idea of being a disappointment after all this.

Maybe there’d be time for him to eat a spinach salad before... before what? Sherlock would be going Home, wherever that was, as soon as he could get a flight out. John was going to be a meal, and then an afterthought. 

That stung. Even if he wasn’t sure why. 

“You didn’t actually have to throttle him,” John said as they reached the interrogation room. 

“I don’t have to do a lot of things.” Sherlock propped the door open, and leaned against it, watching the corridor. “But I do them.”

“But...” John shook his head. “It makes you look as bad as they think you are. As bad as him, even. The other lads, the other soldiers here, they haven’t seen you being clever and quick, haven’t seen you being kind to Oliver when you didn’t have to. They just think you’re another vampire.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why should it bother you what people think of me?”

John stared. “You don’t think that after this week, and what happened the other night... you don’t think I give a damn?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Yeah well, I don’t have to do a lot of things,” John parroted, and perched on the edge of the table. He let a few long seconds pass. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Present Mathers with the evidence, and allow Patterson to arrest her.”

“Simple, then. You know she’ll deny it.”

“I can always force her to tell the truth, should I have to.”

“I thought that was boring.”

“Well, we’re so near the end.”

“We,” John had to smile. “Feel like this has been a learning curve, if nothing else.”

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock pushed himself off the door, hearing footsteps approaching. “You’ve barely scratched the surface, John.”

The double-doors opened, and a small host of uniformed people marched through. 

Sherlock stood casually in the doorway as the uniformed men and women approached, where John stood to attention, his hand raised in a salute at the major general. The soldiers stopped, James Patterson at the front. "At ease, Captain Watson."

John lowered his hand.

Patterson offered his hand to Sherlock, who took it, though his eyes were focused on the woman in the centre of the following of soldiers, her hands cuffed at her back. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes."

"All mine," Sherlock reciprocated, though it couldn't have been more insincere. 

"I expected to be greeted by Major Sholto."

"He's no longer in command. I have evidence of his participation."

"I see... So, you're releasing my officers from command, now?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he finally met Patterson's eyes. "This camp is very capable of running itself without the charge of a hot-headed ranking officer. It's unethical for a company to be following the command of a corrupted officer. I, myself outrank even you, Major General."

The man stiffened. "You were a soldier 400 years ago."

"450, actually. But I think you'll find the rank still holds, by this country's laws. Now, onto more important things. If you could escort Colonel Mathers into the interrogation room, we can begin," Sherlock smiled, turning to face John as he walked further into the room, standing behind the steel table with his hands clasped behind his desk. John did the same.

 


	10. Chapter 10

John rather hoped the Colonel would just confess. It would mean punishment under court martial law rather than going to a crown court, where John would have to be a witness and maybe even taken away from the front line. He had no desire to be taken away from the men who needed him unless he had no choice. He was a doctor – he belonged here.

Sherlock delivered his evidence one point at a time, pausing for a response after each note. 

The Major-General looked more shocked and appalled with each revelation about his colleague, but she remained impassive, blank. 

John would have suspected her of being a vampire herself if it weren’t for her very blue eyes. 

“...and honestly,” Sherlock said, wrapping up, “the almost intelligent idea of spreading the crime around is remarkable. Dirtying many soldiers, so they would all be incriminated should this go to trial. As, I suppose from your response, it must.”

She only gave him a wan smile. 

“You said a doctor fabricated the files,” the Major-General looked from Sherlock to John. “This one?”

“No, however the doctor who was responsible was subject to blackmail,” Sherlock said. “Charging him would be a waste of time and resources.” He steepled his fingers, and looked down at the woman seated behind the desk. “Have you anything to say?”

She did not reply. 

The Major-General cleared his throat. “Mr Holmes… You could... forgive the implication, but you could always... get the information from her, could you not?”

“I won’t have to, one of my associates will do it when it goes to court,” Sherlock replied. “I could do it here, and give her some dignity, of course, but it seems she would favour being strapped into an old dentist’s chair and treated much differently. With much less sympathy. But it makes no difference to me. Humans are constantly killing one another, making life difficult for themselves and us... She’s so tiny, and it would be so easy just to...” Sherlock reached out to the edge of the steel table, and dug his fingers into the metal like it was butter. “But I won’t.”

John’s heart hammered, hot and wet with fear and admiration. 

Sherlock shrugged. “But it is up to you, Colonel. Trial by me, or trial by my people.”

The colonel stared at Sherlock, the first truly visible reaction seen in the clenching of her jaw.

Sherlock cocked his head, never breaking his gaze from hers. "Not very admirable of you, not owning up to what you worked so hard to accomplish, Colonel. Tell me, do you think you'll be more ashamed if you admit defeat while your humiliation is minimal, or when the truth is pried from your lips, and the people who wished to believe you --your daughter, for instance - are disappointed and devastated by the crushing reality of the monster you are."

"I'm not a monster," Mathers snapped, and John looked surprised, as if he wasn't expecting baiting the woman to work, but Sherlock saw through her, just as he saw through everyone. Pride was her downfall. Pride and family.

"You are responsible for the murder of hundreds of natives who wanted peace. You're as much of a monster as I am, Colonel."

"I did it for my family," she seethed. "So my daughter could live a good life, even if I'm not there. The money I made from that war will give her a comfortable life."

"It can hardly be called a war if the people you were murdering weren't able to fight back, but as you please. You admit to all the charges?"

She ground her teeth. "Yes."

Sherlock smiled. "Believe me, that's for the better." He turned to John, who looked up at him with a look of relief and something like admiration. "Major-General, I assume you're capable of handling it from here on?" Sherlock asked, without breaking eye contact with John, who broke into a grin. 

"I am, yes. Thank you, Mr Holmes. For all your help. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to contact me."

"I won’t hesitate for one moment. Thank you. John."

John saluted Patterson, and followed Sherlock's quick pace out of the interrogation room. "Sherlock, wait," John said, running into the vampire's back when he stopped. John huffed, looking up at him and grinning. "That was... Brilliant."

"I appreciate the praise, but it is unecessary--"

"Sherlock, just hear me out. I mean what I said before. I mean it. You're not a monster. If what I've seen from you is anything to go by, you're not--"

"John-”

"You're a good man-"

"John, shut up."

John closed his mouth, surprised at Sherlock's sharpish tone. His enthusiasm died down quickly.

Sherlock put his shoulders back. "What you've seen from me doesn't erase the things I've done, but I know that won't change your mind, so I'll let it go.”

John stared.

“As such, I'm feeling a bit peckish,” Sherlock drew out the word like a knife. “If you would do me a favour and eat something so you're not anaemic when I'm finished with you, I'd be much obliged."

"Oh." John went a bit pink, but didn't break from Sherlock's eyes. "C... Cafeteria food is fine?"

"I can't imagine it'll taste like a fine wine, but I imagine it'll serve the purpose, John," Sherlock said with a twitch of amusement playing on his lips. "I'll be in the bunk. Take your time, please."

 

*

 

John sat at one of the mess tables, fork in hand, looking somewhat resignedly at his plate of steak, and spinach and protein salad. He’d had a few mouthfuls, and washed down a multivitamin and iron tablet, but now he just felt...

Disappointed. 

He shook his head at himself. He shouldn’t be disappointed. He shouldn’t feel anything, really. He’d made the deal, and last time they’d come close to biting being on the cards...

Sherlock had regretted them having sex.

This exchange was going to be so... clinical.

John felt like he was waiting to have some sort of procedure.

“You ok, John?” Oliver stopped in front of his table. “I’ve just seen Mathers and Sholto being led into a custody van.”

“Oh, yeah...” John put his cutlery down. “Guess there’s not going to be a long goodbye from James, then.” He looked up. “Sherlock’s had them arrested. It was Mathers who arranged Brooks’ assassination, and then the deaths of the locals. Sholto was involved. All greed-motivated. Just for money.”

“Christ,” Oliver shook his head. “So... what happens now?”

“Trial at military court and then discharge and probably prison,” John shrugged. 

“No, I meant... with you and - and him. Sherlock.”

“Oh...” John glanced at his lunch and felt himself blush. “He’ll probably be getting the first chopper out of here.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow at the contents of the plate. “Uh huh.”

“It’s not... look, we had a bit of a deal,” John kept his voice low. “He solves it and gets... a go. On me.”

Oliver nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I thought you might have let him already, if I’m honest. He’s very... handsome. Charming.”

“He is, but I don’t think it’s like that for him. Romantic, or whatever. Doesn’t really matter what I want. And it doesn’t change anything. Unless I get discharged or shot or something, I’ve got to stay here and he’s got to leave. I’ve never been good at the long distance thing, we barely know each other as it is, and anyway and he’s always going to need to... Would it be cheating if he bit someone else? I don’t even know how it works.”

“So... you do want him?”

“Doesn’t matter what I want,” John repeated, forking up some leafy greens. 

“You could tell him.”

“He probably knows. And if he doesn’t, telling him might put him off. I’d rather he just bit me and it at least happened. I’ll have that memory, at least.”

Oliver made a sympathetic face. “Anything I can do? You guys helped me enough. I owe you.”

“Maybe just have a beer ready for when he leaves,” John sighed. “Don’t think he’d appreciate the alcohol content in advance.”

They both laughed, and Oliver squeezed John’s shoulder before leaving. 

John picked his fork up again, and sipped at his sugary tea. He didn’t want complaints about his blood.

Even if this wasn’t going to be what he’d imagined.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock paced the length of their room, thinking now about everything he had forced from mind during the case. How he wanted John more than he'd wanted anything in a very, very long time, how dangerous it was for Sherlock to want John, how he shouldn't, how his self control had been shattered like a flimsy slate of glass…

Sherlock didn't want to leave, that much he knew absolutely. He would, but...

He didn't want to.

He wanted to stay and solve mysteries with the fascinating, irritating human man called John Watson. How stupid. He was so eager to make the same stupid mistakes he had when he was human, and that... had made him into more of a monster than being turned ever had.

Moreover, John didn't want the same. Sherlock was sure he didn’t. John tolerated him. He didn't even like Sherlock. He respected him. 

That was fine. 

Sherlock huffed as he lay down on the torn mattress on John’s side of the room, staring at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes. He would leave, and he would leave easily. John would say goodbye easily, and Sherlock wouldn't look back. He could resign himself from this one human, as he had all the others the past half a millennia.

The vampire heard John enter, stopping halfway in the room. He didn't open his eyes as John took quiet steps towards him. John’s heartbeat was close as the soldier loomed over.

Sherlock kept a straight face. "Did you think I was asleep?" He asked, opening his eyes in time to watch John jump. That did make him smile.

"You absolute arse. I've never seen your eyes closed. I didn't know what to think," John said, a hand over his chest.

Sherlock sat up easily, his eyes watching John, who shifted awkwardly under his gaze.

"So...” John swallowed. “How does this go. I just… sit down and let you have a go?" He sounded bitter, somewhat resigned as he spoke this time. 

The vampire was quiet for a moment, watching him. Something was off. "If that's what you want," Sherlock said carefully, standing slowly.

John met Sherlock's eyes. They observed him with a quiet scrutiny until finally, John sighed. "It's not what I want.”

"Good. It's not what I want, either." He took a step forward, and John continued to watch him. His hand lifted to John's cheek, where his thumb stroked across the man's lips.

John shuddered, though not in disgust.

Sherlock watched him. "Do you trust me?"

 

 

“You know I do,” John said, Sherlock’s thumb sweeping over his lip again after he spoke, damp with the soft inside of John’s lip. “Just...”

Sherlock looked him in the eye. “You’re afraid?”

John pressed his mouth closed for a moment, before answering. “Yes, I am. But that doesn’t mean I don’t trust you. I can do both. Feel both, I mean.”

Sherlock stroked over his cheek with the back of his fingers, the barest scratch of fingernail tracing over John’s skin. Gooseflesh raised in the wake of the touch. “What are you afraid of?”

John swallowed. “A... few things.”

Sherlock leaned down, and kissed John on the cheek. It was a soft kiss, cool and gentle, though firm enough, along with the hand gripping at John’s skull, to remind the soldier of the vampire’s possibilities. His strength. 

John ignored the lingering, unanswered part of the question for the moment. He turned his head, chasing Sherlock’s lips, and was rewarded with a firm kiss. Sherlock’s free hand pressed against the small of his back, and crushed their bodies together, making John inhale sharply. 

“Tell me,” Sherlock said, moving his kisses to John’s jaw. “Tell me what you’re afraid of. I’ll know, if you’re lying.”

John gripped at Sherlock’s shirt front. The threat of teeth was very present, and for some reason the fear was tinged with lust. His knees actually felt weak. “I - I’m a bit... does it hurt?”

“Mm,” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled against John’s throat. “It can. I can prevent it from hurting. But the initial bite... well, your skin has to break, there is no getting around it.”

“That... helps, actually,” John said truthfully. He relaxed against Sherlock’s body. “Ongoing pain... I’d appreciate a warning.”

“But you’d still submit.” It wasn’t a question. “Fighting it makes it more difficult for me to help you.”

“I would. I mean, I will,” John said, gasping as Sherlock bit the side of his throat, though not with fangs, not yet. “Jesus…”

“What else do you fear?”

“That I’ll... let you down. Not be good,” John forced a small, nervous laugh. 

“You didn’t hear me complaining the first time,” Sherlock nipped his jaw. Somehow, John’s shirt buttons were undone. “And what else?”

“It doesn’t matter,” John said, chasing for a kiss, again. 

“John,” Sherlock seized his wrists. “Tell me.” It was an order. 

John felt heat arise in his face. “I...”

“John.”

He looked into those red eyes. “I’m afraid you’re going to leave.”

Sherlock blinked. “I... John, I _am_ going to leave. I... have to.”

“I know, and I know you can’t stay, and I can’t leave with you, and I know we hardly know each other, but... I am scared of you leaving. Even if I can’t stop it.”

Sherlock was quiet, for a long moment, unsure of what to say. He, too, was afraid to leave. Afraid of what would happen if he stayed, though he knew he couldn't. 

John pressed his forehead into Sherlock's chest. "You don't have to say anything to that."

"Then I won't," Sherlock said, gripping the back of John's neck firmly, but not forcefully, and guiding his head back. Sherlock took his lips, hard and wanting, hopefully conveying to John the same message John had revealed to him. 

John moaned against Sherlock's lips, hands gripping Sherlock's shirt front, his back, his knees seeming to collapse beneath the weight of the kiss as John went pliant against him, and Sherlock lifted him easily., his tongue sweeping John's, tasting his concern and his matched desire. 

Bringing them to the bed, Sherlock broke the kiss as he allowed John to get situated, though John hardly let Sherlock more than a few inches away from him, capturing his lips again once he was situated, his legs hitched up, squeezing Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock pressed against him as if they could melt together, his hands busy guiding John's shirt from his chest and arms, the man arching off the bed to allow it. After tossing the fabric, Sherlock's hands cupped his soldier's face, breaking their kiss, though his lips never left the man's skin. He pressed what could be considered adoring kisses across John's face, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, starting at his jaw with gentle kisses of tongue and teeth, leaving a trail of marks to his neck, where Sherlock pulled blood to the skin, almost able to taste it beneath the salty taste of John's skin, but he didn't break it yet. 

"You're teasing me," John said breathily, his hands winding in Sherlock's hair. 

"Yes," Sherlock responded, grinning into John's skin as he ground their hips together. "It's better to wait until just before your climax. It will feel better for you, and taste better for me."

"Adrenaline," John moaned as Sherlock ground again. "You --you can taste it?”

"Yes."

John gave a shaky breath, then made a noise of surprise when Sherlock bit his collar bone, leaving an immediate mark. He protested by gripping Sherlock's back, as if trying to tear his shirt off. "Get this off."

Sherlock obliged, fingers working deftly at buttons.

John used the few seconds Sherlock was removing his shirt and belt to rummage in his drawer and toss the tube of lubricant onto the bed. He went for his own trousers, and promptly had his hands batted away by Sherlock, who was climbing back over him. John had to grin - if you'd asked him before all this started how he'd feel if a vampire was climbing over him, he certainly wouldn't have said _excited and aroused_.

"Shit..." he touched at Sherlock's chest, down his breastbone. "You're really..." Sherlock stole his words by kissing straight under his chin, at John's soft tissue, forcing his head back even as he gripped at John's skull for want of long enough hair to pull. It was a reminder of Sherlock's control - he could crush John's skull like an empty eggshell, if he forgot himself.

The danger made John shudder, and hook a leg over Sherlock's hip to pull him close. The steady grind of their pelvises resumed, John's erection almost hurting already from the back and forth motion, until Sherlock threaded a hand between them both, and slipped it beneath John's trousers and underwear.

John swore, arching into the hand that could only get half a grip on him in that position. Sherlock smiled against his skin, dragged his teeth over one of John's nipples as he rolled his fingers, touching the hot skin of John's cock, though barely able to move with John's trousers the way they were.

"Please," John gave the best thrust he could manage. "God..." He went for his own buttons again, but this time Sherlock was faster, tearing the fastenings open with the hand he'd previously been pretending was stuck and constricted. Cotton tore, and John barely had a moment to mourn his clothes before Sherlock had his fingers wrapped around his cock completely, and was giving a hard grip and movement down that made the soldier clamp a hand over his own mouth.

Sherlock smiled. "You remember what I said about unnecessary noises. Good."

"Fucking hell," John hissed against his palm, and tried to thrust into Sherlock's grip, but Sherlock but his free hand on John's hip, and held him still.

After only a few strokes, Sherlock released his grip on John's cock, unable to bear witness to John's pleasure without participating.

John made a noise of protest, but watched with interest. 

Sherlock held back a snarl of desire. The things John was doing to Sherlock's self control were criminal. He kept on hand on the man's hip, and the other unbuttoned his own trousers, pulling them down quickly and unceremoniously before pressing his own length against John's, his hand squeezing them together.

John's breath hitched, watching the action as though he couldn't peel his eyes away. Sherlock watched John, giving a grunt of pleasure when John thrust his hips against the vampire's rhythmic strokes. 

"Sherlock --oh, fuck, that's bloody good --shit," John stammered, his abdomen tightening. Sherlock took his hand away, though he was more than hesitant. John whined.

"Not yet," Sherlock murmured, sitting up as he grabbed the tube of lubricant, spreading some on his fingers. John looked painfully hard, and if his grip on the metal frame of the bed was telling, he was, but he didn't protest this time. He seemed, like Sherlock, to want to prolong this as much as possible, though they both knew it couldn't be long.

They were both desperate and wanting and hard. Sherlock wanted to taste John on his lips, feel his life blood seep onto his tongue, feel his cool body fill with warmth. 

He pressed two fingers to John's entrance, spreading the warming lubricant, and dipping the tip of one finger in teasingly before John hooked his arms under both his legs and brought them up towards his chest.

It was suggestive and welcoming in a way very few of his partners had been before, and Sherlock swallowed, then removed his fingers and gripped the backs of John's knees. He pushed, curling John’s body further upwards, perhaps bruising his skin with the forcefulness of the action as the vampire leaned down and dragged his tongue flat against John's entrance.

John yelped, then moaned loud as Sherlock indulged himself further, and Sherlock found he no longer cared that the noise might flood into the ears of the other humans amongst them. 

_Let them know this one was his…_

John could have burst into tears from the sheer overwhelming sensation. 

The intimacy, the taboo nature of the act, the trust and closeness, was something never given to him before. This was so far removed from a wank in the showers, or having a dry cock rammed inside him in the barracks, that he could barely handle it. 

“Oh god. Oh god Sherlock. Sher- Sher stop! No, no keep... Oh my god,” John’s legs strained against Sherlock’s hold, both wanting to simultaneously escape and also to impale himself on that searching, flicking, stroking tongue.

John parted his legs as best he could, covering his face with his hands as he did so. He couldn’t stand Sherlock seeing him like this. 

“No, John,” Sherlock’s warm breath washed over John’s skin. “Lower your hands. Show me your face.”

John did as he was told, sobbing as Sherlock’s attentions resumed. Sherlock slid a lubricated finger inside him, along with his tongue, hooking over his softening rim, and tugging just enough to make the soldier’s legs shake, his moan let sounds out that were obscene and out of his control. Sherlock’s fingers were cool, but his tongue was warm, and the strong muscle was working John’s entrance open efficiently. 

“God, please,” John grabbed back at the bedstead, trying to hold off some of the feelings building inside him. “Sherlock... fucking just... please...”

Sherlock kissed the bud of his entrance again, before sliding two fingers deep inside John, and curling them to stroke over his prostate. 

John saw white for a second. “Stop - don’t - I’ll come -“ he panted, closing his eyes to get a hold of himself. His cock was throbbing and hot, milky drops spreading onto his stomach, and his arse felt empty as Sherlock withdrew his fingers.

John almost sobbed in relief as Sherlock moved John’s legs again, lifting them over his hips as he lined up that thick cock, and rubbed the head of it over John’s soaking entrance, teasing. 

John let out a breathy list of expletives, his body begging to be taken.

And the vampire listened.

Sherlock didn't tease John for very long --he couldn't. He wanted to be inside of him, wanted to milk from John every pleasure he could. He rubbed at John's entrance, once, twice, three times before he couldn't wait any longer, using his hand to guide himself into the tight heat, helped by his saliva and the minimal use of the lubricant. 

He stopped for a moment once the head of his cock pushed past the tight ring of muscle, feeling breathless even though he had no use for oxygen in his lungs. John was gripping at his arms, which were planted firmly on the mattress, taking shuddering breaths and cursing as Sherlock began to sink further into him, until he was flush against John. 

"Oh, shit," John moaned, reaching up for Sherlock, fingers curling into his hair and pulling him down. “Sherlock, please…”

Sherlock obliged, his forehead dragging along John's chest before he lowered further and scraped his teeth and the flushed skin.

"Sherlock --please --ah, just move. I need it--" John’s speech was punctuated by gasps for breath, the slap of skin.

Sherlock bit into the sensitive flesh around John's nipple as he thrust into John. The man jolted as he moaned, scrabbling at Sherlock's back, pulling his hair and gripping his head as if trying to simultaneously pull Sherlock away and keep him where he was, lapping at the bite, which would soon bruise. 

And suddenly, after the initial movements, it was very different.

Sherlock's movements became languid, and John's hands gripped Sherlock, massaging through his hair rather than scraping and pulling, and Sherlock realized he had never wanted anything more than he wanted John in that moment.

They hardly knew each other, it was true. Sherlock wasn't certain that it was love, it was far too soon to say, but he knew for certain that John was everything that he lacked, and that he dreaded parting ways with him.

He kissed John’s throat, and nosed his jaw to one side with the gentlest of touches. "John," he said, his voice low with a light rasp, and softer than he had ever bothered to make it for anyone else. "You’re close. May I?"

John shuddered, his pulse rising as he met Sherlock's eyes. "Yes. Yes."

Sherlock slipped his arms around John, supporting his back as he lifted the man onto his lap, still moving slowly inside of him. He pressed his nose into John's neck, inhaling along the artery there, dragging his tongue over the pulse, then his teeth, his fangs dropping, then sinking into the flesh. 

John groaned, gripping the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck. “Ahh…”

Sherlock's fangs retreated, and a heavy flow of red oozed from the wounds. Sherlock lapped greedily at the streams which had found their way to John's collar bone, making his way up to the wound and latching on. John's warmth filled him, his taste flooded Sherlock's senses. It was exquisite. John was moaning, moving himself on Sherlock's lap, and the pleasure of it all was more than he could take. He let them fall back again, so that John was beneath him once more, still drinking all he could, measuring how much he could take before John began to get weak.

It wasn’t like bleeding as John knew it.

It was nothing like he’d imagined. As soon as his back hit the mattress again, Sherlock’s mouth latched onto his throat, John orgasmed. He cried out in a broken and ragged voice, arching from the bed as he held onto Sherlock’s hair with one hand. Pleasure shot through him fast, but refused to die down. It burned through him fiercely, setting his nerves on fire, and wouldn’t be extinguished. It grew hotter, and harder, and drained him in the most wonderful way he could imagine.

Some part of his mind was vaguely aware that he was losing blood. That he should do something about it. 

But the feeling made it almost impossible to move. John was pliant against Sherlock’s mouth, his body soft as the vampire fucked him hard, though not fast. And then Sherlock, too, was moaning against him, and John felt the vampire’s cock swell and throb and pulse inside him, and he lost the ability to think at all. 

And then, just like that, the feeling began to lessen. John realised his eyes were closed. And Sherlock was licking firmly at his throat. 

Closing the wound, John realised dully. 

His heart suddenly hurt. 

He forced his eyes open, and reached for Sherlock. And was grateful when the vampire let himself be embraced.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock turned his head to look John in the eye. There was a pink blush to his cheeks now, his eyes were brighter, and he looked the least dead John had ever seen him. 

 _I did that_ , John thought. _I made him look human, again_. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m...” He wanted to say Fine. He really did. But it was over, now, and that was it. It was never going to happen again. “I’m...”

Sherlock kissed him on the corner of his mouth. 

“This really sucks,” John said to the ceiling. Then sighed. “Sorry. Bad choice of words there...” he gave Sherlock’s hair a stroke. “Does it always feel like that?”

Sherlock hummed. “It can do.”

John nodded. “Then... thanks, I guess. I... I just...” He huffed out a breath that sounded more than a little broken. “You really have to leave, don’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He just kissed the bite-mark on John’s neck, and pulled him close. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

John didn't doze for a long while, his fingers often tracing over the bite mark at his neck, where a nasty looking bruise was beginning to form, as it always did when Sherlock took blood from someone.

Eventually, John brought the covers up, stopping Sherlock when the vampire tried to move away for fear of keeping John cool. 

“Stay,” John said, sleepily.

Sherlock sighed, and got back under the blanket with him, and John drifted into an exhausted sleep.

It was night when John spoke again.

A truck driving noisily past the camp had woken him, and the sensation of someone next to him made him pause, rather that simply turn over and go back to sleep. The lights had gone out, and Sherlock had turned on the lamp.

A sudden peacefulness settled over him, and John struggled to stay awake. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

A silence followed for a long few moments. John yawned, before speaking again. "What happened to the woman who betrayed you?"

Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow before he answered. He looked down at John for a moment, as if deciding whether or not he should say. Then, he spoke. "I killed her."

John wasn’t surprised. "How?"

The vampire swallowed. "After I turned, I found her and I... Slit her throat. Didn't drink any of it, just... Watched. It wasn't for any animal need, it was purely to watch the life drain from her eyes. I was angry."

"Why?" John blinked, slowly.

"She took away my ability to die. I've never hated anyone so much before. But I regret it now."

"You would have done it differently?"

"Ha. I think I would turn her, so she could suffer in the same ways I have."

John was quiet for a long while. "Is that why you think you're a monster? For getting your revenge like that?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"I think I'd want to do the same," the man said, quietly, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

Again, Sherlock didn't respond, just listened to John slowly slip into sleep.

 

*

 

John woke when the recording of morning trumpets sounded into the corridors. He tensed slightly at the feeling of an arm over him, before he remembered. He smiled, snuggling back, feeling a fold of duvet between him and Sherlock - the vampire must have stuffed it between them during the night to stop John getting too cold. John moved it, now, the coolness of Sherlock’s body welcome with the increasing warmth of his own. 

“You stayed all night,” he said, sleepily. 

“Yes.”

“Must have been pretty boring for you,” John turned over, and smiled. There was a dull ache at his neck. “Did I do anything embarrassing?”

“Not really,” Sherlock smiled back, though he barely moved his mouth. He stroked over John’s chin with his thumb. “You didn’t seem to dream.”

“Must’ve felt safe,” John leaned up to kiss him softly. Then a horrid sinking feeling crept down his chest and settled in his stomach. He felt his mouth turn down against his will. “Sherlock-“

Sherlock turned his head, just a fraction. 

The was a bang to the door that made John jump. “Captain Watson?”

“Shit,” John struggled out of the covers, and yanked on his trousers, trying not to think about gravity and how shagged-out he probably looked. He went to the door, and opened it barely a crack. “Yes?”

The officer at the door was one John recognised - he attended John’s medical bay fairly often for insulin. “Captain Watson...” the officer’s eyes flicked to John’s neck, and widened slightly. 

John wished he had an idea of how it looked.  “Yes, corporal?”

“Um. If you... if you see Mr Holmes... his helicopter is due at oh-nine-hundred.” The soldier looked at John’s neck, again. 

“Thank you,” John said. “I’ll tell him.” He closed the door quickly. And rested his head against the door. “Well, that’s that.”

Sherlock sat up. He was rumpled and naked, but (aside from the red eyes) looked surprisingly human. John put it down to the blood in his system. John’s blood.

Sherlock would leave, but he still had a bit of John in his system. Keeping him healthy and alive. 

It made John want to cry. 

“Your flight’s in a couple of hours,” John said. 

Sherlock didn’t bother saying he’d heard. “That’s... fast.”

“You must have good friends. Or efficient enemies,” John went over to the bed, and sat down. “I don’t even know what to say. Where will you go? After this?”

“London,” Sherlock said. “And then... wherever I’m offered.”

“London,” John smiled. “Say hi to the place for me. I expect our regiment will be disbanded, and we’ll be sent all over. Probably back to the front lines, for me. Lots of injuries to deal with.”

They sat in silence for a minute. 

“I’m going to miss you,” John said, looking Sherlock in the eyes. “Maybe... if I ever get leave, and you’re not out solving crimes...”

Sherlock took John’s hand, and turned it over to rest his fingers on his pulse. 

It was a reminder. John was alive. Sherlock was not. 

But John didn’t give a shit.  

 

*

 

Not much else was said between them.

Sherlock joined John for a shower, lucky that most of the men had already had theirs that morning as they had a lingering snog brought on by eyes meeting just a moment too long. Foam and soap ran down their bodies as Sherlock let himself be pressed against the tiles to avoid John catching a chill.

It was over far too quickly.

When they got back to the bunk, Sherlock packed his belongings and John watched quietly. He looked like he wanted to say something.

After a while, Sherlock sighed. "Spit it out, then."

John looked surprised, then realized it was pointless to act. He pursed his lips for a moment as he watched Sherlock going through his things for a second time to be sure he got everything. "Do you want to make this work? Or are you glad to be leaving?"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing. He didn't look up, for a moment. When he did, he stood straight and took a breath. "I told you before that it was fine to tell you about my past because I would be leaving soon anyways. I thought it would be fine. I've always been fine. For 500 years I've never been anything less than fine.”

John raised his eyebrows, but didn’t interrupt.

Sherlock went on. “The truth is... I'll be quite sorry to leave, today. You're one of the few humans I've met who haven't repulsed me. I've enjoyed my time with you. That said, I think it's better if I go. I'm..."

"Don't say a monster,” John warned. “Even if you have left the worst hickey I've ever had."

Sherlock smiled. "I wasn't going to. I was going to say that I’m very much like a ghost. Drifting through the world. I leave impressions, but I don't make attachments. It would be selfish of me to do that to you, especially," Sherlock said, pressing his lips together as he zipped his suitcase.

"You really are a coward, huh?"

"Yes."

John pursed his lips, but he nodded.

The next hour consisted mostly of preparation for Sherlock's departure. The helipad was cleared and Sherlock, unlike any other guests this base might have, was left unguarded, much to his relief, although John stuck by him.

Sherlock was grateful for that.

When the helicopter did arrive, it was turned off for refuelling and John and Sherlock stood facing each other, their eyes meeting. 

"Well," John said, swallowing. Sherlock's eyes grazed his throat as his Adam's apple bobbed. 

"I have the strangest feeling that this is not the last time you and I are destined to cross paths."

John laughed. "Do you believe in destiny? I didn't have you down as the type."

"When you're alive for as long as I've been, you stop believing in coincidences," Sherlock said, smiling softly at John.

"Mm."

"In any case, I'm not a difficult vampire to find, if, after your wars are over, you need a peaceful sleep."

John smiled up at him for a moment before looking utterly distraught. He pulled Sherlock down, crushing their lips together hard.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's middle, lifting him up and keeping him as close as possible, breathing him in until they parted due to a shout that the aircraft was ready. They stared at each other for a long moment as John's feet touched the ground again. Sherlock brushed his nose over John's, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the heavy purple bruise at the soldier's neck.

"Goodbye, John."

"Bye, Sherlock," John said, letting go of Sherlock's lapels as he turned away, hopping into the helicopter without a glance back. The future was all that was left for Sherlock, and he dearly hoped John would be a part of it.

 

*

 

Six months later, John was shot. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

John woke up on board the helicopter flying him out to Camp Bastion.

He woke up again a few times before the surgery that would install a ceramic plate onto his shoulder blade. He signed some things, his signature little more than a scrawl, and gave the details of his next of kin, and other people he wanted notifying about his injury. 

He woke up properly in hospital in Canterbury, several days after the injury.

Sunlight streamed into the room. John flexed his hands, feeling the cannula in the top of the left strain against his skin. There was a plastic clip on the index finger of his right.

There was a steady beep coming from some machine or other, and a pleasant, familiar smell of cotton sheets and disinfectant. 

He made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and opened his eyes. 

And almost had a heart attack. 

“Fucking hell,” he clamped a hand to his chest as he looked at the vampire standing at the foot of his bed. “Who’re you?”

“Good morning,” the vampire looked up. His suit looked as though it cost the same as the UK’s defence budget, and his dark red hair was thinning, slightly. “You’re Doctor Watson?”

“Yeah, and you are..?” John glanced at the door, and wondered if he should press the alarm to call the nurse. Or security. 

“Relax, Dr Watson,” the vampire came around the bed and helped himself to the visitors’ chair. He crossed his legs, and steepled his fingers in a way that rang a distant, familiar bell in John’s mind. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here on behalf of someone else.”

“Sherlock?” John asked. He didn’t think a vampire could be here on behalf of anyone else. 

“Indeed. Your request for him to be told about your condition came through to me, as Sherlock is currently... indisposed.”

“Is he ok?” John frowned. 

“Simply at work,” the vampire said. “Nothing onerous.”

“So... you’re his... friend?”

“Sibling. Mycroft Holmes,” the vampire offered a hand. John shook it weakly, feeling a bit faint. He badly wanted to sleep all of a sudden, as if fatigue was taking over his limbs.

“Nice to meet... so, why are you here?”

Mycroft smiled, gently. “Sherlock doesn’t have many attachments. If any at all, aside from those in his professional life. For someone to ask that he be notified when they are injured and close to death... is unusual, to say the least.”

John blinked. 

“Tell me, Dr Watson,” Mycroft sat up, his red eyes shining with the health John knew came from a recent feeding. “Tell me... were you hoping Sherlock would come to you and turn you?”

John’s mouth dropped open. “What? No!”

Mycroft stared as if he could read the truth in John’s face. “Truly.”

“Yeah,” John lay back against his pillows. “Christ almighty... I just... we left things kind of hanging when he came over to the regiment last year. He said to look him up, if I got chance, and we…” John decided to circumnavigate the truth, slightly. “We got on well, and I thought he might like to know I was injured, and might die.”

Mycroft hummed, and raised an eyebrow.

John rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to be... no offence, but this...” he gestured at Mycroft, “this isn’t in my plans, ok?”

Mycroft nodded, and sat back. “Very well. You’ll forgive the overprotectiveness... as I say, Sherlock doesn’t make an impression on many people... at least not one where the other person would wish to keep in touch. Without some sort of motive.”

John resisted the urge to touch at his neck, where that very angry bruise - the one that had taken weeks to heal from purple to black to red to brown to yellow and green before finally vanishing - used to be. “So... will you tell him, please? That I’m ok? Shot, but not dead.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

John closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

 

*

 

Mycroft didn't tell Sherlock.

Not immediately, anyway. He knew how much Sherlock hated distractions whilst he was on a case, and he was right in assuming that John's condition would, in fact be a distraction. He did not, however, imagine that a John-shaped Distraction would be a welcome one. It wasn't like his brother to form attachments.

So, imagine Mycroft's surprise, as he told Sherlock of John's condition, the cold fury that swept over his features and locked onto his brother.

It was ten days later. Sherlock was nearing the end of his case, tearing through his flat in search of something, when Mycroft appeared in a twist of pinstripes.

Sherlock practically growled with disdain. "I'm on a case, Mycroft. Get lost for another twenty-four hours. You know I can't stand you even on a boring day," he said, without turning around.

"I know. I just had some news I thought you might want to hear."

"I doubt it," Sherlock responded, pulling a box from beneath his desk and searching through the contents, tossing books left and right. Some, Mycroft noted, that were rare first editions and nearly priceless. He sighed.

"News came my way from Camp Bastion. They had a request to relay to you the condition of a Captain John H. Watson. Does the name ring a bell?"

From the way Sherlock froze, his back stiffening, it was obvious that it certainly did. 

"What condition?" Sherlock asked quietly, his voice hard. Dread ran through him, followed shortly by pure and raw anger at his brother. He shoved it all down, for the moment.

"Ah, so you do recall--"

"I said WHAT condition, Mycroft," Sherlock shouted, his back still to the man.

Mycroft went still, amusement falling from his features. "He was shot in combat."

Sherlock didn't make a sound, his hands gripping the edge of his desk. After a very long moment, he turned, that cold fury rising in his features. If he wasn't Mycroft's younger brother, the man would have been terrified.

“Is he dead?”

“No. Injured, but very much alive.”

"And you decided not to tell me immediately... Because?" Sherlock asked, his voice icy cold and burning hot all at the same time.

"I only assumed that it would be a hindrance to your case, which seemed rather time sensitive. You've thus far never welcomed distractions. Care to explain what makes this any different?"

Sherlock froze again, remaining silent. His jaw clenched, and after a moment, he spoke. "I don't think that's any of your business, Mycroft."

"Not for now, anyway. He's in hospital in Canterbury. Recovering,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock glowered at him before vanishing.

 

*

 

He reappeared in front of the hospital, his nerves on edge as they never had been in over 500 years of being a vampire. He walked inside, going to the front desk, though he could have sniffed John out just as quickly. He didn't like the smell of sanitizer.

The woman at the desk gave him directions, never taking her eyes off of him, fear very obvious in the way her heart leapt at the sight of Sherlock's ruby eyes.

Sherlock followed her directions, and stopped in front of John's room. Relief flowed through him.

He almost hadn’t believed Mycroft when he'd said John was alive.

He'd been immersed in an overwhelming feeling of dread and fear and devastation when his brother had said John's name, and the word _shot_.

Now, watching through the glass window of John's door as the man slept, he felt calm relief flowing through him. He touched the door handle, pushing it open quietly, and stepped into the room.

John's scent flooded his senses.

Sherlock inhaled deeply as he walked closer, taking a seat at the edge of John's bed and reaching up to run a thumb over his soldier’s cheek.

 _Ah, yes. So. That was it, after all._ So sudden. So quick, it might have been missed, but it was there.

Sherlock was certain now that he was falling in love.

How he'd missed this man, even if it frightened him so.

Sherlock longed to hold him in his arms.

 

*

 

John stirred as something cool touched his face. “Uhn...” he brushed at it, and his fingers were caught. A refreshing, cold, grasp. He dragged himself into consciousness, head swimming somewhat. 

He rubbed his free hand over his eyes and face, and a familiar set of red eyes, framed by dark hair, swam into view. 

“Shhhlock?” John tried to sit up, the groaned loudly at the pain that lanced down his arm. “Ohhhh. Fuck...”

Strong arms caught him under his own, and helped him up before the bed was adjusted and he could sit up enough to look Sherlock in the eye. The pain died down to a tolerable throb.

They stayed still for a moment, smiling at one another like idiots.

John spoke first. “I thought you weren’t coming, you know?”

“I didn’t get the message until today,” Sherlock didn’t sit down. He looked at John, sort of leaning over him, sort of perched on the bed, hands either side of John. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s ok, I just figured you were busy. Or didn’t care,” John teased, too poorly to take things too seriously. “It’s... Good. To see you.”

“You were shot in the shoulder,” Sherlock’s red eyes flicked over John’s body. 

“Yeah. Big bastard of a shot. Shattered my shoulder blade. Got a lovely bit of ceramic and steel in there, now.” He winced. “I’m sorry, if you’d rather not have known. They asked me who they should tell, and... I just felt like I wanted to tell you. I’d want to know if anything happened to you, for what it’s worth…”

“I’m glad you wanted me to know,” Sherlock said. He took John’s hand. 

“Your... brother? Thought I might want you to know so you could turn me.” John smirked, as best he could.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want that.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No, I don’t, if that’s alright with you.” John lay back. “God, it’s good to see you. Are you ok? You look... well.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I was working a case. Unimportant.” He thumbed over John’s chin. “My brother is an ass.”

John smiled. “You’ve not got to get going away straight away, have you?”

“No,” Sherlock stroked over John’s hair, which had grown out a bit. “How long do you have to stay in here?”

“Couple more weeks. Physio, and so on. And I had a bit of an infection, but that’s cleared up now. But even so...” John’s mouth turned down. “Think my service might be over. When I get out of here, I’ll be a civilian again.”

Sherlock nodded. “Still a Doctor, though.”

“Oh, yeah.” John shut his eyes for a moment, the short conversation making him tired. “Sorry. Antibiotics and stuff takes it out of you. And the food isn’t great. Feeling pretty crap.”

A soft kiss planted on his lips. 

“Go back to sleep,” Sherlock said. “We don’t have to rush. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

*

 

Sherlock watched John as he slept again. His cool fingers brushed against the man's cheek, felt through his hair. He ran his thumb along the veins in the back of John’s hand, feeling the rush of blood beneath the surface. None of the touches seemed to disturb John’s sleep, and if anything made him seem to fall deeper into sleep.

No sounds, or restless shifting.

Sherlock moved from the bed only when a nurse entered the room, and threatened to scream when she saw the vampire leaning over John, until Sherlock had put a finger over his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to John's forehead.

After which, he stood and sat in the guest's chair, still holding John's hand, to prevent any further incidents. With his free hand, he texted Lestrade the information he had gathered on the case, informing the man that he was indisposed, and until further notice would not be taking any more cases.

For once, that thought did not bother him. He was sure that eventually he would begin to get cabin fever, but small cases would do just fine for that. Until John was well, if John wanted him, he would stay. After that, if John still wanted him, he would stay. If John still wanted him when he was retired and needed to rest, Sherlock would stay. The brilliant bringer of light. Sherlock had fallen for a mortal, and he could not be betrayed. There was nothing John could do to him that Sherlock couldn't accept, and so he had no reason to be frightened of an attachment. He had never thought such a feat to be possible.

It had taken a separation, and the threat of nearly losing John, to make him see it.

So, Sherlock sat, hours passing, the time measurable only by the light that crept between the curtains. Sherlock never looked at clocks unless it was important to an investigation. He had all the time in the world. More than he wanted.

When John did wake up, it was nearing noon. He'd slept more than twelve hours, and it looked like it had done him well when he opened his eyes. He glanced around, eyes settling on Sherlock, looking almost surprised, as if he'd thought the night before had been a dream. John smiled. "Just like you said you'd be," he said quietly. "Christ, I've not seen you in six months but it doesn't feel like you ever left, now you're here again."

Sherlock stood, then sat again at the edge of John's bed. "I missed you, John. Time passes more quickly for me every year, it feels. It felt painfully slow in your absence."

"Romantic."

"I'm _trying_ to romance you," Sherlock smiled. 

John snorted, then winced in pain, frowning as he looked at his shoulder. 

"I'll call for a nurse. Your dressings need to be changed," Sherlock said, reaching for the call button.

"Doctors make the worst patients."

"I can only imagine what a stubborn one you'll turn out to be."

"Mm." John looked at Sherlock, and smiled softly. "You'd better kiss me before they come in.” 

Sherlock looked at him. "I've already scared a nurse half to death, leaning over you while you slept."

"People will talk," John said, still smiling as he reached up with his good arm and pulling at Sherlock gently.

"People do little else, don't they?" He said softly, bending to John's will and taking his lips. An intense rush of affection and need for John rushed through him, and he cupped the man's face with his hands as they kissed fiercely, parting only when the door opened, and another nurse froze at the sight.

 

*

 

“What do you think?” John asked, when the nurses had taken his dressings off. “I’ve seen it, I made them take a photo, but...” he wanted to shrug, but his shoulder hurt too much. “The puncture at the front isn’t too bad, at least.” He was well aware of the mess of exploded flesh at the back, that had been cut into and re-sewn and was currently black and blue and red, swollen up and looking like something Frankenstein had put together.

Sherlock hummed. “I’ve seen worse.”

John glanced back and had to smile. “I guess you probably have.” He gripped the edge of the bed, then, hanging on as the wound was cleaned up. He tried to put the pain to the back of his mind, and shut his eyes. He thought about Sherlock. Coming to see him, as soon as he heard. Those gentle kisses... John’s heart gave a throb. 

It really was romantic. Almost as if...

Nah. Surely not..?

“There you go, Captain Watson,” the nurse said. “If you wanted to go for a walk, you’re welcome to. It’d do you good to get out of this room. And you have your... visitor. B-boyfriend?”

John heard Sherlock’s drumming fingers still. 

“Yeah, we’ll take a walk,” John said. “Sherlock can you help me get dressed?”

 

*

 

“Boyfriend?” Sherlock asked when they got down to the coffee shop on the ground floor. 

John hummed a small laugh, letting Sherlock hold him up as they went up to the counter. “Works for me. I’m too ill to overthink it.”

The counter clerk looked at Sherlock and went white. 

John ordered them both coffee, and they went to sit down. “Would it bother you? If we went with that? I’ll be out of here before too long, and... if you do relationships... did you want to try it?”

Sherlock just looked at him.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock watched John, who, after a moment of looking back at Sherlock, took a drink of his coffee.

The silence was more than a little awkward.

"I've never had a… relationship. At least, not the way relationships are carried out in this day and age," Sherlock said. "And I've never really been open to one, before. Not really my area, since murdering the only person I've ever loved.”

John blushed, and Sherlock realised the subject didn’t sit well with him. He went on, quickly:

“But I want to be with you. You're the first person I've met in centuries that I care about. I want... Whatever you want."

John stared at Sherlock for a long time, then shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy, but I just... I don't understand why it's me. Of all people. You could literally have anyone."

Sherlock went quiet for a moment, then looked John in the eye. "You make up for everything that I lack,” he said. “That's not to say you complete me. You can't live for nearly 500 years and not be a completed person. You just... You kept me right. You reminded me of what it's like to be human. And I’ve come to realise… that was a very good thing.”

John smiled a little bit. "You really are trying to romance me." He paused. "What do you mean by the way relationships are carried out today? What was it like for you when you were… before?"

Sherlock sighed. "For myself, I had always been friends with the woman in question. We were the cleverest children in our group of acquaintances, and our families were close. As children, we were allowed to play together, but as we grew older we weren't allowed such casual acquaintance. So, to get around this, I asked her father for permission to court her. Not because we wished to be married but because we rebelled in each other's ability to comprehend what others could not.”

John smiled. “You never liked her… like that?”

“Both our tastes were... Quite opposite,” Sherlock looked pointedly at John. “She was my best friend. We were to be married, but..."

John watched him. "It still bothers you, then."

"No. Not in the way you think. I say I loathe her, but... In all truth, I loathe not knowing why she did it. If she knew what she was doing to me."

John nodded, then sighed and changed the subject. "So, if it were up to you, you would talk to my parents, take me out a few times, marry me, then shag?"

If Sherlock could blush, he would have. "That - that's not what I was suggesting – just -"

"I know," John grinned. "We don't have to go by the book. We're already out of order. We can do what feels right."

Sherlock huffed in agreement, and John smirked.

"I can't imagine you in 1600's fashion, Sherlock."

"I was not as flashy with my status as some were, but I did dress with the times. Men's fashion has come so far, it's so much less restricting."

"Wish I could see pictures."

"I do have a portrait. Unfortunately, in these days, it's not very becoming of me. Perhaps once you're better, you can see it. I kept some things from the past. Some journals, which I stopped making when I realized they would go on forever. Photographs, paintings. Many artists were fascinated by us."

"I think I'd like that very much."

 

*

 

Sherlock’s presence made the time go faster. 

John did his physio religiously - being able to have a career as a doctor in the civilian life that awaited him depended on his ability to use both his arms completely. 

“That’s it, John, just keep that arm level,” the physiotherapist watched him carefully as John held the weight in the palm of his hand. A pitiful 500g. Before the injury he was deadlifting 70kg. 

“Oh, fuck,” John’s arm gave way, and he dropped the weight, stepping back quickly to save his toes. “Sorry.”

“No, that was great,” the therapist said, smiling. “That was better than some of my civilian patients. You’ve been practicing.”

“Yeah, well,” John gripped his shoulder. “Want to get back on the horse. So to speak.”

“Well, keep this up and you’ll be out of my hands before you know it. When do you get to go home?”

“Er, next week,” John glanced at the floor. 

“You sorted somewhere to live?”

“Er...”

The physio pulled a sympathetic face. “You’ll be ok, John. Anyone’d be lucky to rent to you.”

When the session was over, John walked himself back to his room. His arm was throbbing, and he was worrying somewhat about finding somewhere to live.

Although he and Sherlock had been very cute with each other (although not sexual, as John simply wasn’t up to it), and John had let Sherlock romance him to interesting degrees... he couldn’t exactly ask if he could move in with him.

“You’re worried,” Sherlock said, looking up from his phone as John came into the room. “And your arm hurts,” he added. 

“No change there,” John sat in the chair beside him. “Just... thinking about getting discharged, next week. Feels a bit shit after fifteen years in the army. But at least it was in action.” He accepted the painkillers Sherlock passed him, and the water. “Going to be weird, being in the real world again.”

Sherlock watched him. “Are you frightened?”

“A bit,” John took his medicine. “I joined the army to get away from the world. Or my world as it was when I was eighteen. Not many opportunities for a teenager with no money and no support. The military just seemed obvious. I wasn’t expecting to actually like it, and when I got into my degree as well... honestly, it was like someone had turned around and given me the world. I’d had nothing before. I guess I’m scared of ending up with nothing again.”

“You'll not end up with nothing, John," Sherlock said sternly, meaning it entirely.

John laughed. "I don't know that you can control that."

"I can. You don't believe me."

John looked at Sherlock, then did a crooked smile that Sherlock liked. "I think I do."

"Good answer," Sherlock said, picking up his phone again. 

"You've been texting a lot today."

"Lestrade. He has a case."

"Are you going?"

"No. It's barely a five. I don't leave for anything less than a seven."

"You've hardly left, save to grab a bite." John grinned, but there was another bite - to his voice. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't need to look at John to know he was semi-amused with his pun. "Boring criminals won’t drag me from you. And I'm not going to take blood from you when you've just come off the blood bags yourself. You're not well enough, and in a less concerning point, you won't taste yourself."

"Yeah, I know. It's just... I wonder if it... feels the same for other people as it does for me." John tried to sound casual, but his voice cracked.

Sherlock put down his mobile and looked at him. "John, I'm not sleeping with anyone else. I haven't slept with anyone else since you. I haven't wanted to. I haven't bitten anyone else. I've been living off of blood bags like a savage for the past 6 months. It's like living off fast food. I've done it before. It's not favourable, but it's fine. I've not always time for the inevitable distractions that come with drawing blood, and my casework comes first, as always."

John looked happy, but also guilty, as if he shouldn't be happy about such a small thing. He reached his hand to rest casually at Sherlock's elbow as the man finished his text. 

"Now, what were you actually worried about?" Sherlock asked.

"I told you," John said.

"And I believe that you are worried about that, but that's been a niggling at the back of your mind. What you were thinking about when you came into the room is something current, something that's going to happen or might happen. What was it?"

"Why did I choose to date a vampire?" John sighed. "You're way too perceptive.” 

Sherlock didn't know the answer to that. "That… has almost nothing to do with my condition. I was like this before I was turned."

John pressed his lips together and brought his hand away from Sherlock's elbow, folding them in his lap and staring straight ahead. "There are just things I need to work out before I leave. Things I didn't have to think about when I was in the army. How I'm going to do things with my injury, where I'm going to live. I've got to get it all sorted by next week."

Sherlock tapped on his phone as he spoke. "Where you're going to live? Don't be ridiculous, John. You're going to live with me. It only makes sense. I have a bedroom which I don't use, a territory which is safe and protected by myself, a job which generally takes me away from home. Once you're back at work, it will reduce the time we spend with each other even more unless you move in with me."

John stared, feeling himself blushing, and his stomach doing weird clenching things that made him feel half sick and half excited. “You - you mean that? You don’t want to... ring my parents and ask for permission first?” he teased. 

“Oh, I hardly think that’s necessary these days,” Sherlock teased back. 

“Well, good,” John smiled. “One’s dead, and I don’t talk to the other.”

“Which one is deceased?”

“My mother.”

“Ah,” Sherlock was clearly doing quick deducing. “I’m sorry.”

John shrugged in acceptance. “It’s ok. It was in my teens. I don’t know what she’d say to _this_ , mind...” he smiled. “Thank you. I’d love to live with you. And...” he almost said that second bedroom wouldn’t be necessary, then decided not to assume. Vampires might like their own space. “And, thanks. You’ve saved me from being homeless.”

Sherlock gave him a guarded look, but didn’t press John for what he had avoided saying. 


	15. Chapter 15

“This is an _incredibly_ stupid idea.”

“Good morning, Mycroft,” John said, falsely cheery as he exited the cab. Sherlock followed, carrying John’s hold-all. John had a few possessions in storage, but they would have to wait. He already felt rather out of place in the middle of London, in old-fashioned clothes from a decade ago, next to a vampire. Two vampires, now.

People were already crossing the road to avoid them, some of them giving John pitying looks. It was an open rumour that vampires were capable of glamouring humans to be in their service, either as servants, food, or… for other things.

John realised that he would have to be ready to defend his relationship with Sherlock. Possibly for a very long time.

“Get lost, Mycroft,” Sherlock was hissing, his red eyes glowing.  

Mycroft put his shoulders back. “Sherlock. Have you considered what you’re doing?”

“Have _you_?” Sherlock countered. 

“Maybe we could do this inside?” John offered. He was quite hoping for a cup of tea and a sit down, and the public avoiding them were making him feel increasingly embarrassed. 

Sherlock followed his eyes. His eyebrows creased at the sight of the hurrying humans on the street. “...fine.” He went to unlock the door, and tried the handle. “Fuck!” he snatched his hand back as though it had been burned.

Beside John, Mycroft smirked. 

“Mycroft, what have you done to my - ah,” Sherlock looked at John. “You’ve decided to live here, haven’t you?”

“Er, yes?” John frowned. “Why?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake… You will have to invite us both in,” Sherlock sighed. 

“What?” John half laughed. “I thought that was a myth!”

“Not quite. Well, it’s quite complex in that it depends on where the individual considers ‘Home’, which might not necessarily be where they live, but... yes, you need to invite us in.”

John grinned, and went up the steps, trying the door handle and feeling it turn as it should. He stepped into the hallway, and turned back to the brothers. “Won’t you both please come in?” He asked. 

"You could have just invited me in, then we could have avoided the elephant in the room," Sherlock muttered as he shuffled past John in the entry.

John grinned.

Mycroft followed, rolling his eyes, but giving John a slight nod of thanks for the invitation.

Sherlock put down John's bag and helped the soldier get his coat off his shoulders. 

"I still think we should discuss this," Mycroft said, sounding collected, though John could tell he was irritated beyond belief. 

Sherlock paused after hanging John’s coat up.

Alerted by the sound of the voices, Sherlock heard the shuffle of Mrs Hudson's feet, looking excited as she saw Sherlock.

"Sherlock," She greeted happily, pulling the vampire down for a kiss to his cheek before doing the same to John. "And you must be John. Sherlock told me you'd be coming so I've stocked the refrigerator upstairs for you and started a pot of tea."

"Oh, thank you," John said, surprised by the display of affection that Sherlock was allowing to go on. 

Sherlock smiled. "John, this is Mrs Hudson. She's the daughter of my previous landlady."

"Who was the daughter of the one before that. I'm no more his landlady than he is mine," Mrs Hudson smacked Sherlock’s arm. "Oh. How do you do, Mycroft," Mrs Hudson added, sounding pleasant, but less pleased at his presence.

Mycroft gave a reasonable impression of a smile. "Very well, thank you. Shall we all get out of the foyer, now that we're done with introductions?"

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, then picked up John’s bag. “It’s straight up, to the lounge.”

John started up the stairs, and Sherlock and Mycroft bickered behind him the entire way. It was obvious Sherlock wished Mycroft hadn’t chosen this day to come around and give a lecture. He would much rather that John could acclimate, and relax. 

Sherlock followed closely as John stepped into the living area, which was cluttered, but not messy. Mrs Hudson must have tidied up, which Sherlock was somewhat grateful for. 

"There's lots of books," John said with a smile.

"I've had plenty of time to collect."

"And... A skull."

"A friend of mine," Sherlock responded, then paused. "Well, I say friend."

John snorted, then moved further into the room and took a seat in the chair opposite Sherlock's. Sherlock felt his mouth twitch upwards involuntarily. 

Mycroft folded his arms. "As I said, this is entirely stupid."

"In what way?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes as he put John's bag on the sofa and began on his own coat, ripping off his scarf. 

"You know exactly in what way. I’ve told you time and time again. Sentiment is not an advantage. Especially in our position. You're going to be heartbroken, Brother, as you were the hundred years after your least heartfelt endeavour."

John looked up at Mycroft, then at the skull. Something cold settled in his stomach.

"I'm resolved to what happened back then. It can't happen again," Sherlock said. “And it won’t. I do not take this lightly," he added coldly.

"If it's any consolation, I don't really either," John spoke up. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd both stop talking like I don't exist in the same room as you."

"My apologies, Dr Watson,” Mycroft sighed, “but I truly doubt you can comprehend what it's been like for Sherlock to watch the people involved in his life fade away for the last 500 years. He's always been fragile. You'll forgive me if I'm not fond of the idea of his making a bond deeper than those which have already blackened his heart."

"You can't protect him from everything. If all that's left of his humanity is his heart, then let him feel with it," John shrugged. “I’ll happily take it.”

Mycroft glowered, looking ready to speak.

Sherlock cut him off. "In short, my affairs are not yours to control. See yourself out," he said coldly, stepping between Mycroft and John, his eyes staring, unblinking, into Mycroft's. 

After a very long moment, Mycroft twitched his nose indignantly, and twisted on the spot as he vanished from the centre of Sherlock's flat.

John and Sherlock were left alone.

"Well," John said, standing up. He moved to the kitchen. "I suppose the chemistry set is a permanent fixture."

Sherlock turned to him and smiled, following him into the kitchen to help him lift the kettle. "It is."

"And where would the extra bedroom be?"

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "My bedroom is down the hall. The extra is upstairs but it's used as storage for my things."

"Oh," John said, then blushed with a laugh. "Oh. A bedroom you don't use. Your bedroom. Because you don't sleep. I'm an idiot."

"You thought I was suggesting separate rooms."

"Yeah," John said, moving closer to Sherlock with a grin, and pulling him forward by his shirt. "How stupid of me."

"Indeed, how thoughtless," Sherlock said back, bending to John's will and leaning to connect their lips.

The kiss flamed through John - a soft buzz that made him hum against Sherlock’s mouth, pull him closer with his good arm until John was backed against the fridge. 

“Should’ve got you to carry me over the threshold, really,” John said, breathlessly, chasing Sherlock’s mouth again. And winning it, briefly, until Sherlock kissed at the hinge of his jaw, and leaned back slightly, his eyes fixed on John, an intense stare. 

“I’m not made of glass,” John said gently. Then frowned. “Has he bothered you?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “But you’re just out of hospital, and you haven’t even made your tea.”

The kettle clicked, steam spilling out through the kitchen. 

“Tea would be good,” John admitted. “Not had a decent one for… ages.”

They made the cups together, and Sherlock carried the tray into the living room, and they took their seats. The armchair with the cushion already felt like John’s, and he sat back with his tea, looking around the cluttered and comfortable room. It felt homely. Homely enough. More than, even. 

Still...

“Well, he was right, a bit, wasn’t he?” John said after a few quiet sips. “I am going to die. Eventually. Even if we... stay... like this,” he blushed, not really enjoying thinking about what a breakup with a vampire might entail. “Together, I mean. Not that I’m saying we won’t, but even if we do... it’ll end, at some point. For you.”

“Yes, and it will seem fast to me, even if it is a lifetime for you,” Sherlock put the cup he’d been nursing down. It was mostly full. “But I’m tired of being afraid of that. I want to be with you, and I know what that will mean. It’s... just what has to be.”

John put his own cup down, and carefully stood out of his chair. He went over, and hesitated in front of Sherlock, before throwing caution to the wind and setting himself on Sherlock’s lap, one leg either side.

“John?” Sherlock asked, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. His eyes shone, teasing, wanting.

“Mm,” John cuddled close, smiling as Sherlock put his arms around him. John turned his head slightly to one side, making his invitation slightly more obvious. 

Their proximity forced Sherlock to swallow John's scent. He still smelled of the hospital, but it was fading, slowly, through the cab ride to the flat and being in Sherlock's presence.

It was still familiar, and still welcome. 

Sherlock suddenly found his mouth watering, listening to the pulse of John's heartbeat beneath his skin. He pressed his nose to the man's neck, nudging closer as he closed his eyes and squeezed his arms tighter around the man.

"You're taunting me," Sherlock groaned, pressing his lips to John's vein, scraping his teeth over it.

John shook his head, slightly. "No, I'm inviting you. The blood I borrowed should already be absorbed into my system. We ate tapas for lunch. Or, I did. You will do, by default."

"I… I’ve been holding back," Sherlock sighed.

"I don't want you to," John responded, leaning further into Sherlock, his knees straddling the vampire. "I’m feeling strong, and I’m here with you. Be selfish. I know you are, even if you've been on your best behaviour," John grinned against Sherlock's neck before opening his mouth and biting down hard against Sherlock's neck. He knew Sherlock's skin wouldn't break, but he wished Sherlock to feel it.

Sherlock did, and a jolt of desperation and need followed in him. The vampire gripped at the nape of John's neck, his hair long enough now for Sherlock to hold as he hand John’s head fast, and sank fangs into the man's neck with no preamble.

John flinched, then groaned, and Sherlock's chest tightened at the sound, swallowing greedily as John's lifeblood gushed onto his tongue. The man's hand flew to Sherlock's hair, his neck tilting back as Sherlock held him tighter still, breathy moans escaping him as Sherlock drank. 

John rutted against Sherlock, his erection already present through his jeans. Sherlock let him take what he wanted, as he did the same, until he was forced to pull away from John to prevent everything from ending far too soon. He lapped at the wound, stopping the blood quickly and dragging his lips up to John's jaw, his hands rubbing down John's back, dipping under his trousers and pants, and squeezing his arse hard.

John moaned. "Fuck, Sherlock. Are you finished already? I want you. Been too long."

"I'm not done. Just holding off," Sherlock said, massaging John's firm backside, spreading his cheeks and dragging a dry finger over the entrance. 

John took Sherlock's face in his hands and forced him into a kiss, deep and long, their tongues searching each other, searing pleasure through to their nerve endings.

Copper washed over warmth.

When they pulled apart, Sherlock stood, lifting John with him, holding him up easily. He pressed kisses to the corner of the man's mouth, his cheek, soft and sensual.

There was blood smeared on John's chin from the kiss, so Sherlock licked it off as he entered the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind them before letting John put his feet down.

John watched him with an adoring intensity.

It was happening so fast. John moved like a released animal, tearing at the vampire’s clothing. Sherlock only had to help him with the top buttons, where it hurt John to lift his arms for too long. Sherlock’s deep red, recently fed eyes watched, as John lowered his hands to the vampire's trousers.

Their eyes never left each other’s faces.

"You're letting me lead?” John murmured, leaning up to kiss Sherlock's throat as his hand slipped into Sherlock's pants, and gripped his cock.

Sherlock swallowed, John's taste still on his tongue. "I want to watch you take what you want. I want you to tell me what you want."

John grinned.


	16. Chapter 16

John glanced down at where his hand disappeared into Sherlock’s trousers. His fingers met firm flesh, not warm exactly, but less cool than Sherlock’s hands. He gripped, and saw Sherlock’s lower lip tremble for a moment.

“I want... to make you feel good,” John said softly. “Explore you. Find out what makes you tick. You can deduce me, I’ve got to do my own investigating...” John started on Sherlock’s trouser button. 

Sherlock took a breath, probably on reflex, as he didn’t need to breathe on a day to day basis. 

The button undone, John took hold of Sherlock’s waistband, and pulled him backwards. They stepped in the direction of the bed, until the backs of John’s knees hit the bed frame, and he could sit down.

“Not to ruin the romance, but I don’t trust myself to kneel without falling over quite yet,” John grinned, pulling Sherlock’s zip down as he spoke. “Wanted to do this back at the barracks. But you didn’t give me chance.”

“John...” Sherlock’s eyes glowed with hunger, though not entirely for blood. 

John’s heart picked up the pace as he pushed Sherlock’s trousers over his arse, and he was faced with severely tented underwear. His own erection throbbed, and he was tempted to give up on his current plan, and simply frot against the vampire until they both came, but why rush?

They had all night. All year. 

Forever, if they wanted it.

The thought made John make a small noise in the back of his throat, and quickly pushed Sherlock’s underwear down, catching the erection that bobbed free with his mouth, licking eagerly as the head rubbed on the roof of his mouth, leaving a taste.

“John!” Sherlock’s hands snatched at John’s hair, so tight it hurt, for a moment, before relaxing just enough for John to look amused. He swirled his tongue around the head, messily, a fleck of spit escaping his mouth before sucking down, and hard, and tasting the thick, cloying, essence of pre-come being drawn from Sherlock’s cock. 

 

*

 

The way Sherlock's control crumbled in John's hands, he couldn't deny his feelings for the man. He couldn't hide them. He wouldn't. If John asked, he'd say everything that was building up inside him, although he doubted he needed to.

If John hadn't figured it out by now, he wasn't as smart as Sherlock gave him credit for. 

He clenched his hands in John's hair as the man rolled his tongue, pulling off from Sherlock’s cock until just the head of his cock rested on the dip of John's tongue. John's blue eyes met Sherlock's red ones as he closed his lips around him and sucked, swallowing Sherlock slowly down again, feeling the vampire’s cock push against him, penetrating his mouth.

The vampire groaned as he watched John's mouth spread around him, taking him all the way, down his throat. John’s nose buried into Sherlock's stomach, and he lifted his hands, scraping his fingernails over Sherlock's abdomen, down his thighs, choking lightly as he swallowed around Sherlock, before pulling off again with a gasp, saliva dripping down his chin.

Though Sherlock's body wouldn't warm, the sensation of liquid heat rushing to his groin was still very present. He wanted to push past John's teeth, hold his head while he fucked his throat, but that was for another time. They had a lifetime, if John so chose. 

John looked up at Sherlock, lifting a hand to Sherlock's cock and stroking before tilting his head and dragging his tongue up the side. "I want you," he murmured, then pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hip, and his stomach. "Want you inside of me. I want you to hold me."

Sherlock pulled John up, taking his lips in a hard kiss as he pulled John close to him. The kiss deepened as Sherlock undressed the man, carefully lifting his top over his head and his injury. He tossed it aside, kissing John everywhere he could reach as he made short work of his trousers and pants, John kicking them somewhere on the floor. He gave a longing sort of moan as Sherlock bit softly at his collarbone, then pulled him forward again. Sherlock lifted the man onto his hips as though he weighed nothing, supporting his back and hips effortlessly as they continued to kiss. John barely felt he needed to hold on at all, but he did, just for the sheer joy of it. Sherlock flashed a grin of white teeth, before turning them around and sitting on the bed, his back to the headboard as John settled on his knees over Sherlock's cock.

They both looked down deliberately, at where their cocks were brushing together, hard flesh against hard flesh, exposed flushed skin betrayed the need of each.

John leaned down, and closed their mouths together as Sherlock reached into the bedside drawer for the lubricant. He opened his eyes at the sound of the bottle being uncapped. He kissed Sherlock again, and smiled. “Let me?”

“You’re not meant to twist your arm like that,” Sherlock’s eyes glittered as he lubed up two fingers. “But you can move your hips.” He smiled, somewhat evilly, and reached behind John to drag those slick fingers between his parted arse cheeks. 

“God,” John shivered, flinching away before moving back to chase the touch. Sherlock gave it to him, swirling his finger over John’s closed entrance, slicking the taut skin, soaking the tiny twists of hair so John didn’t even have to relax before allowing Sherlock to push a finger inside him. 

John struggled to hold himself up with his arms, so Sherlock held him upright, hard against him, letting John rock his hips back and forth, allowing a second finger inside himself with a sob, even as his erection rubbed against Sherlock’s. 

“Shitting hell,” John thrust against the hard heat on his cock, and back against that stretching penetration. “S’too much... want... god, Sherlock...” he rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling the dull ache at his throat, and wanting it opened anew regardless. 

There was some shifting, some more lubricant, and a bumping kiss as Sherlock gripped the base of his hard cock, and John sank himself down onto it with a shuddering sigh. 

“Oh god,” he almost sobbed, breathless. “God, I missed you. This... can’t believe...” then he moaned in pleasure as Sherlock gripped his arse cheeks wide, and thrust in, burying himself inside John’s body. 

John cried out, his body going limp for a second at the full sensation, at the idea of being _taken_ in such a way when he really was powerless to resist. He could never have fought off a vampire even when he was fit, but the idea of not having his full strength for a moment was both frightening and exhilarating. Sherlock would never hurt him. But he could, and that was what made John’s cock throb again, threatening to spill over.

Sherlock rolled his hips hard and fast, as no human could without tiring. It was all John could do to lean against him, to let his cock be rubbed against Sherlock’s stomach as his prostate was all-but abused within him.

“Sher… I – I’m go… Sherlock…”

Sherlock snarled, a deep-throated rumble that made John tremble, and was his undoing.

John cried out as his orgasm washed over him, and there was a searching pain at his throat for an instant as Sherlock bit down, and came inside him, flooding his insides as he continued to fuck him, and drink from him at the same time.

 

*

 

John came to a few minutes later. He was lying down, and Sherlock was cleaning specks of blood from his chest with his tongue.

“…did I pass out?”

“For a moment,” Sherlock said, glancing up at him. “I think it was exhaustion, rather than blood-loss.”

“Yeah,” John flexed his wrists. He didn’t feel bad at all, but he could have happily slept for a year. “…sounds right.”

Sherlock moved up the bed, and kissed him gently. “I’ll get you some water. And then, you should sleep.”

“Will you stay?”

Sherlock glanced away. “I’ll make you cold.”

“Just until I fall asleep, then?”

“…alright.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

“And you’re… human?” the detective inspector didn’t seem sure as he shook John’s hand.

“Pretty much,” John grinned. “You?”

“As far as I know.” They both laughed, and names were quickly exchanged as they watched Sherlock hovering over the crime scene like a bat.

“What’s he like to live with?” Lestrade asked, passing John a paper cup of coffee. “A nightmare, I imagine.”

“I’ve had worse room-mates,” John said.

“Room-mates, is it?”

John sipped his coffee. “Well, no. It’s a bit more than that.”

Lestrade did what John had come to expect – that glance at his neck, at the fading bruises, looking for fresh puncture-marks. A relationship between a vampire and a human wasn’t entirely unheard of. But they tended to be short-lived.

Lived being the operative word.

Some humans walked away from their lovers. Some were turned. Others vanished, and their disappearances were not investigated. Once a vampire killed a human, the human’s rights as a person were revoked – they were treated the same as cattle. And no one went to prison for eating a burger.

“This one looks messy,” John nodded at the corpse.

“Knives,” Lestrade winced. “Some bastard’s really gone for him.”

“Unusual for a vampire to be helping you?” John wondered.

“It’d be unusual if it was anyone but Sherlock. The blood, for starters. We’ve got the place surrounded in case of scavengers, but I doubt anyone else’d be able to get that close and keep their cool…”

Sherlock bent over the body, face close the dead man, his dead blood.

“Vampires don’t go for dead blood, though,” John said. “Do they?”

“Sherlock said it’s as much examining the kill as viewing it as a meal. Knowing what you missed out on. Like finding a candy wrapper in your kitchen.”

Sherlock came over, glowering with thought. “More like a chicken carcass in the fridge, but the simile works well enough, Lestrade.” He looked at John. “Did you want a look?”

“Already seen the photos,” John shrugged. “Serrated blade, but a short one. Probably part of a Swiss Army knife. Could be dismantled or re-assembled.”

Lestrade nodded. “We’re on it, John. Sherlock, anything to add?”

“He was a Type One diabetic, and his insulin levels were low. Might be worth examining the contents of his stomach. He may have been running or trying to escape his attacker for some time. CCTV?”

“The team are already on it.”

“Wonderful. Text me with any developments. John?” Sherlock nodded towards the street.

“Wait,” Lestrade said, “you’re not going after anyone?”

“John is still recovering from surgery, and I have no desire to leave him standing around whilst I flit all over the city. You can handle this one on your own.”

John made an apologetic face. “I don’t mind if you…”

“No.” Sherlock looked down at him. “Not today.” He seemed to be saying something without speaking.

John gave it up. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“You owe me a chase, Sherlock,” Lestrade called after them.

“Any time you want chasing, Lestrade, you just let me know,” Sherlock smirked back, his red eyes flashing.

“Hey,” John poked him.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Sherlock took his hand. “Lestrade is not my type.”

“Blood Type?”

“Ha ha. No, he is truly straight-laced and far too dull for words. There are those who like that, of course. Speaking of which…” Sherlock checked his watch. “He should be in the flat, by now.”

“Who should?”

“My brother.”

 

*

 

“Still alive, I see, Doctor Watson?”

“More or less,” John said, wincing as he and Sherlock ‘landed’. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t just get a cab. He leaned against the frame that separated the lounge from the kitchen. “What about you?”

“As dead or alive as whichever medical journal we are trusting this week claims,” Mycroft gave a tiny smile.

Sherlock took John’s coat and hung it up. “Why are you here, Mycroft? Checking to see if I’ve cracked, yet?”

“Yes.” Mycroft took John’s armchair. John glared at the back of his head, and went off to boil the kettle. “It has been several weeks, and your human is still alive. That is… commendable.”

“You think so little of me? That I would have torn his throat out by now?”

“I know you and your passions,” Mycroft said. “You obsess. Whatever’s on your mind soaks into the very creases and you cannot let go.”

“Obsession is not what this is.”

John turned to get some cups. Mycroft liked to talk about him as though he wasn’t there.

“Oh yes? And what of when someone else in our world takes a liking to him?”

“He’s my –” Sherlock stopped.

John looked over. Their eyes met. Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “I’m your what, Sherlock?”

“Boy…friend,” Sherlock said, lamely.

“That wasn’t what you were going to say.”

“No.”

“Then what _were_ you going to say?”

Sherlock stared, and John’s internal prey-alarm started to chime, but he forced himself to maintain the eye contact.

Sherlock broke it, first. “I was going to say ‘mine’.”

John frowned. “What, like… a possession?”

“But you’re not,” Sherlock said. “You don’t belong to me.”

“He could,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock’s eyes blazed.

John heard the kettle click off, behind him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I meant that there is a way for you to become Sherlock’s property, in such a way that other vampires would be unable to harm you,” Mycroft said.

“You mean turn me.”

“No,” Mycroft raised a finger. “You would remain human. Untouchable by other vampires. Sherlock would always be aware of your location, to within a few dozen feet. He would know if you were in danger, he would have some sense of your moods, your health. It is, some claim, a wonderful relationship.”

“It sounds hellish,” John said instantly. “I don’t want Sherlock in my head.”

“John is an independent human being,” Sherlock said. “He is no thrall, no blood-slave. If I would have to force him to stay here, I would rather he left.”

John folded his arms. “Mycroft, with respect… what do you think this is?”

Mycroft stood. “I think this is a mistake. I think this is your death sentence, John Watson, and I think Sherlock will kill you, one day. Perhaps he won’t mean to. Perhaps he will simply lose control, take too much. Or maybe you will make him angry. Or bored. Or just hungry. But there are no elderly humans who love vampires. They live short lives, or else they flee when they can, and count their blessings. You will not be an exception.”

John opened his mouth to speak, then cried out as he found himself slammed against the wall, Mycroft’s hand around his throat, a knee between his thighs, bared teeth close to his jaw.

A second later, Sherlock collided with Mycroft, tearing him off John and barrelling him to the floor.

John gasped as the two vampires rolled, then separated, hissing at each other, fangs descended, eyes wide and blazing red.

“Alright,” John shouted. “You’ve made your point.”

Mycroft straightened up, his face impassable once more. “I do hope so.”

Sherlock spat, then stood straight, hands behind his back. “I knew you wouldn’t harm him.”

“Liar,” Mycroft glanced at him. “I could have torn his head off.”

John looked at Sherlock, whose jaw had gone very stiff. “But… no one would try anything whilst I was with Sherlock, right?”

“Oh, so you intend to glue yourself to his side? So much for being independent.”

“John, ignore him. You’re not a target simply for being with me, or without me.” Sherlock adjusted his cuffs. “Paranoia helps no one. Mycroft, you need to leave.”

“Very well, brother. But heed what I tell you. If you care for this man, you will sit together and discuss this properly. How long can you protect him, when our kind is born to covet what we have been denied?” He smiled again, and vanished.

 

*

 

John looked up from his pasta. Sherlock was sipping blood through a glass straw from a coffee mug. The metallic smell of it was in the air. “So… what’s involved?”

Sherlock didn’t bother asking what he meant. “It involves suspending your free will. It alters your DNA. It is a process human science cannot replicate, or even understand.”

“Magic.”

“If you like.”

John put his fork down. “And I’d be… bound to you forever?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not ready for that.”

“I don’t expect you to ever be. It’s more than a marriage, or a ring. This is… becoming someone else. For me.”

John smiled, sadly. “Was he right? Mycroft? Am I at risk?”

“Not really. You will make other vampires curious, for certain. But our family is old. And respected. It would be a terrible risk for them to hurt you. It would bring my family’s wrath upon their heads. You don’t need to fear.” He sipped back at his straw, and made a face. “The trouble with this is it congeals so quickly.”

John had to smile. “It was your decision to have fast food.”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock had been very wound up after his brother left, and John suspected he was drinking blood bags just to prove he could leave John alone.

“Sherlock,” John said, “I’m never going to agree to it, you know? I don’t want to be turned, and I don’t want to be bound. I want to stay me.”

Sherlock looked up.

John swallowed. “And… if it came to it… I’d choose staying as I am over staying with you.”

There was a horrible silence.

“I’m sorry,” John added.

Sherlock shook his head. “You don’t need to be sorry. I would never force you to be anything else. Your life is your own, and I’m just grateful you want to share some of it with me. I shan’t be the one to walk away from this, but neither shall I blame you if you are the one to do it.”

John reached over the table, and they took one another’s hands. “I love you.”

Sherlock looked up, sharply. “John –”

“Don’t,” John held a hand up. “I don’t need you to say anything. Ok?”

Sherlock nodded. “…ok.” He brought John’s hand up, and kissed his wrist.


	18. Chapter 18

In hindsight, John thought, he really should have seen this coming.

The signs were all there. The precedents.

He should have known that it would end like this.

And it all started with that parcel…

 

*

 

“Parcel for you, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson put the post on the table in the lounge. “Have you ordered something?” After last month’s _incident_ , the landlady had learnt not to open any boxes with Sherlock’s name on. John still couldn’t look her in the eye. The contents of the box had made up for the initial embarrassment, though. It was amazing what a vampire could so with their mouth, especially since they never needed to take a breath. But Mrs Hudson didn’t need to know that.

John watched her now, pottering around, with a little smile on his face as she picked up the mugs they had carelessly left lying about, ferrying them to the sink. She wouldn’t wash them. She wasn’t their housekeeper, after all. He looked back at his newspaper, and circled one of the job adverts. It wasn’t that he was bored, helping Sherlock on cases, but there was a lot to be said for routine. And having your own money. John didn’t have the right mindset to be a kept man.

“Sherlock, you really need to do something about this kitchen…”

“I don’t use it,” the vampire said, eyes glued to his microscope.

“No, but John does. He’s barely got any surface space with all your… stuff lying about…”

“He’s fine.”

“I would like a bit more space, as it happens,” John turned around in his armchair.

Sherlock looked up. “…why?”

“Because it’s the world’s smallest kitchen, and if I put a plate down that’s the entire surface space I’m allowed to use taken up. Come on.” John grinned. “I’m sure you don’t need to have _all_ the poisons out.”

“Poison?” Mrs Hudson took her hands off the table.

“Relax,” Sherlock sighed, “I’m not going to leave anything where a human might come into contact with it. Not by accident, anyway.”

“Sherlock!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll move things!” Sherlock shoved his stool back, and stood up in one fluid movement that betrayed his irritation. He always got more vampiric when he was cross. He started sweeping empty test tubes and old papers into a container with more viciousness than was strictly necessary.

“You can start with that parcel,” Mrs Hudson pointed. “I don’t need any more surprises at my time of life. Now, I’m going next door…” she bustled out of the room, and John heard her go out of the front door.

Sherlock stalked over to the table, and picked the box up. It was covered in a plastic-like packet. “What _is_ this? Did you order something?”

“I don’t think so,” John shrugged. “Could it be from Greg?”

“Greg?”

“Lestrade.”

“Oh. No, there’s no postmark from the Yard…” Sherlock tore the plastic off, and looked at the cardboard box inside. “Strange,” he said. “Why would they wrap it in plastic as well?” He tore through the cardboard edge with his fingers, and popped the lid.

John would never forget the scream that followed.

Sherlock dropped the box, which spilled a grey powder as it fell. He held his right hand out in front of him. And screamed. John had never heard a sound like it. It was a guttural, feral scream of pain that went straight to his gut.

The box landed on the floor, more powder spilling out and drifting into the air.

Sherlock shot backwards, away from the dust, still screaming in what had to be agony, his hand still held out, and John could see the pale white skin was blistering, peeling…

He looked at the box. “Oh god…”

Sherlock lost it. Still screeching like a banshee, he crashed into the table, breaking glass and smashing beakers as he grabbed water and poured it over his hand, but it did nothing except steam as it met the hot, melting flesh. John could see bone, blackening even as he watched.

He ran over, against all good sense, as Sherlock collapsed to the floor, bucking and screaming, his red eyes wide and filled with horror. The skin on Sherlock’s hand looked like a horrific burn. The flesh was coming away entirely. Sherlock’s eyes were glowing red, and he snarled viciously as John came over.

“Silver nitrate,” John said quickly. “It’s in the air. Don’t breathe. We need to get you out of here. Can you move?”

Sherlock merely bared his fangs at him, and hissed like a wounded cat. Whatever was going through his mind, he was too afraid to even attack. He was cradling his hand now, the horrible burn creeping further down his arm, eating his flesh away.

John didn’t know how to help. Silver was one of the few things you could incapacitate a vampire with, but it wouldn’t kill them. It would merely send them wild, rabid, in horrific pain, until they –

Ah.

Until they got enough blood to heal themselves. Of course.

John picked up a piece of broken glass, and quickly slit the pad of his thumb with it, deciding to worry about infection later.

Sherlock’s snarling became quieter as the blood welled on John’s skin. The fear in his eyes turned to hunger like flicking a switch.

“Stay still,” John said, squeezing his thumb, trying to ignore the growing fear in his stomach. He was prey, helping a predator, in the hopes that the predator wouldn’t rip his throat out. He needed to appear as if he knew what he was doing. He flexed his thumb again, and let a drop of blood fall, onto the vampire’s wounded skin.

It landed on the silver burn, and Sherlock flinched, giving another growl of pain, that quickly died away as the drop of blood soothed the silver burn, turning the skin pale again in a spot about the size of a penny.

He looked up at John.

“Helps?” John asked quickly.

Sherlock nodded, his mouth still open, fangs descended. “Help… me.”

John swallowed. There was a single blood bag left in the fridge. Keeping one eye on Sherlock, he quickly went and got it, and emptied the cold red contents into a bowl, and grabbed – for want of anything else – the roll of paper kitchen towel.

“You need to stay still,” John said again, bringing it over. The silver burn was still creeping up Sherlock’s arm, halfway to his elbow. He needed to stop it in its tracks. He tore off strips of kitchen paper, and soaked them quickly in blood before applying them straight to the burned and decaying flesh.

Sherlock howled, punching a hole clean through the plaster in the wall beside him before his shoulders relaxed.

John put on another strip.

And another.

At each touch, Sherlock roared with pain. But it was working - the burn climbed no further. Where the cold blood soaked into his exposed muscle and flesh, it healed – the vampire’s body pushing the wet paper towel out, leaving no scar, no ridge, no mark that there had ever been a wound at all.

John didn’t think. He didn’t allow himself to acknowledge the fear that must be similar to what a vet feels as they try to patch up a wounded tiger before the knock-out dart kicks in. Except here, there was never going to be one. He just carried on with the application until there was no blood left in the bowl. Apparently, a pint didn’t go very far. And Sherlock’s hand was still rotting, the bone exposed in places, and turning black.

He sighed. “You’ll need to take the rest straight from source,” he pushed the bowl away, and undid his top button. He had no idea how much Sherlock would need to heal his hand, and the vampire was clearly ttrmbling with need. Sherlock was holding onto the table leg as if to restrain himself, waiting for John to say something.

A tingle of fresh fear ran over John’s skin. He’d never seen Sherlock like this. Never so needy, so out of control, so bedazzled by pain that he wasn’t really himself.

Sherlock hadn’t really said a word since he opened the box.

He looked feral, his mouth open, fangs down, eyes watching John’s movements the way a cat watches a mouse.

But there was nothing for it. If John didn’t help him, he could lose his hand. He took a deep breath. “Ready when you a-”

John’s words were cut short as Sherlock moved too fast too see, and bit hard into his neck. There was pain, and John shouted, made to pull away, but he couldn’t. Sherlock never normally hurt him much, these days. He knew how to slide in his sharp fangs so the pain never lasted for more than a moment, quickly drowned in pleasure.

But this hurt.

This hurt a lot.

There was no pleasure, only a horrible, terrifying suction and draining sensation that made John grab Sherlock’s hair and pull in an unconscious effort to get him to let go. But it was like trying to shift a brick wall. Sherlock ignored him, and bit harder, blood pouring from John’s throat now, and a sudden breathlessness alongside a new pain – one that felt as if his throat and chest were suddenly on fire, making his arms let go of Sherlock, and his entire body go limp.

And John realised why.

Sherlock had bitten through his wind-pipe.

He could tell – there was a bubbling, crackling feeling when he inhaled. He could taste blood, taste it in his nose, somehow.

Sherlock had been too desperate for blood to take proper aim. He was going to suffocate John, drown him in his own blood.

John didn’t, couldn’t, move.

The fact that he was at risk of death registered as if this was ordinary, fine, nothing to worry about. John hurt, but he couldn’t panic. He didn’t have enough in him to panic. He might die. That was the fact of it. He could tell blood was running from his mouth, now, feel the wetness of his lungs as blood seeped into them, every breath a wet slap, a struggle. It was just a matter of time…

Oh.

He was let go, and fell hard to the floor. He tried a breath, and heard the terrible bubbling whistle of his broken airway. He was going to pass out.

He could hear a dull sound, being repeated.

Repeated urgently.

He realised it was his own name.

 

*

 

“Bronchial puncture,” the nurse said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

John stared at her. He wasn’t allowed to try and speak. Besides, his mouth and throat were rammed full of various tubes. _Could have been worse_?

“It was a small puncture,” she showed him the scan. “It will heal by itself, now. To be quite honest we’re more concerned about the bruising and trauma to your throat. And the transfusion. You… lost a lot of blood.” She turned a page. “Once we take the lines out, you’ll have to wear a neck-brace for a couple of weeks.”

John rolled his eyes, then tried to make a grateful face. Difficult, when your mouth was wide open.

“You should be allowed out the day after tomorrow. Do you have somewhere to go?”

John frowned.

“I just assumed… since… domestic assault…”

 _It wasn’t assault,_ John told her, mentally, _it was a bloody attack on Sherlock that made him go fucking mental. This isn’t really his fault, it’s the fault of whoever sent that powder to the flat. And what’s happening with that? The whole place is going to need fumigating or something…_

The nurse gave him a smile. “Press your buzzer if you need anything, John. There’s a pad and pencil on your lap.” She gathered her things, and let herself out.

John stayed quiet for a moment, and listened to the whirring noise of the ventilator. He could feel cold air rushing through his lungs.

A tiny bronchial puncture. No foreign body, and no real worry about scarring due to the placement. It was lucky. Ish. Sherlock could have torn his wind-pipe out. But he also could have left John enough blood in his body to stay conscious.

John had passed out through fear, and blood-loss, and only slightly through being air-deprived. He would probably made it to A&E in a cab if he’d been able to walk…

Sherlock had taken him to hospital. Turned up, apparently, covered in blood and carrying John in his arms. Now, there was an image. John almost wished someone had photographed it. And they thought it was assault…

John knew he would be fine.

He didn’t doubt that Sherlock would be riddled with guilt.

But this wasn’t the vampire’s fault.

Something had made him lose control like that. Someone had sent that silver to him.

John could only hope Sherlock was on the case, and was not wasting time punishing himself.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock _was_ punishing himself.

The flat was being cleaned by a specialist team, and would be out of access for at least a fortnight, so Sherlock was having to hole up at his brother’s house.

“Where are you going at this time of night?” Sherlock asked, as Mycroft picked up his coat.

Mycroft stared at him. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too crass to say _going out for a bite to eat_?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I see.” He looked back at his laptop.

“You should come.”

“Busy.”

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft drew in a breath he didn’t need. “Starvation is not a… recommended course of action.”

“I don’t _need_ to go out,” Sherlock looked over the laptop lid. “Unlike some people, I don’t see the point in gorging myself to the point of bloatation.”

“You have only just recovered from a serious wound,” Mycroft pointed out. “You need to feed… Unless you would rather meet Doctor Watson out of hospital with thirst clawing up your throat.”

“Fine.” Sherlock slammed the laptop shut. “But you’re following my lead.”

“I don’t think so.”

“A game, then?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Rules?”

“No one underage, no one expecting, no one…” Sherlock thought about it.

“No one working for one of the emergency services?” Mycroft suggested.

“Fine. Pick a target.”

Mycroft took out his phone, and drew up a collection of names that he should have had no access to at all. He flicked down the list and jabbed a finger at random. “Ms Lydia Thornton,” he read. “Aged fifty-four.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock grinned. “See you on her doorstep?”

“You will indeed,” Mycroft said.

And both of the brothers vanished.

 

*

 

Two hours later, Lydia Thornton was dead, and Sherlock was sitting on the pavement outside her house, staring into the gutter.

“Sentiment will get you nowhere, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, coming out of the house behind him. “You’d rather leave her alive and injured?”

“I’d rather not drain them to the point they can’t be saved,” he replied. “Not if they don’t deserve it.”

“They are food, Sherlock.”

“They are people.”

Mycroft sat down beside him. “You never used to care. John Watson has changed you.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“You know who sent you that powder?”

“I’ve considered it.”

“Have you tried to get in contact with him? In a way that won’t leave a trail of destruction?”

Sherlock shook his head. “How can I contact him? And what would I say?”

“You could apologise.”

“No one apologised to me.”

“True,” Mycroft looked up at the stars. “True.”

Sherlock licked his lower lip, where the taste of blood remained.

“Why did you do it, anyway?”

“He wanted it. Or, thought he did.”

Mycroft snorted. “You were lonely. You got lonely again, and now you have Doctor Watson…” he stood up. “And someone wants you dead.”

“No, they want John dead. Silver nitrate wouldn’t kill me…” Sherlock looked up at his brother, “…but it might have made me kill John.”

Mycroft frowned. “Yes. Quite a sophisticated line of attack. Instead of taking your life away, they’re trying to take something you actually value…” He glanced back at the house, where the dead woman was still inside. He’d left a card, as was polite, explaining how she died. There would be no repercussions, of course. “You will have to protect him, you realise.”

“He won’t be thralled,” Sherlock said. “He’s refused. I won’t force him.”

“Then turn him.”

Sherlock looked away.

“How long do you think you can protect him, Sherlock? He’s only a human. He’s powerless. Weak. And someone who hates you has him in their sights.” Mycroft straightened his cuffs. “You should visit the hospital, tomorrow. John will be thinking you’ve abandoned him.”

“He won’t,” Sherlock stood. “He knows I…”

“You what?”

“Care,” Sherlock finished. “He knows.”

 

*

 

John’s ventilator had been taken off, and he was being allowed to breathe on his own. His voice sounded dreadful – like he was suffering from a terrible infection – and every time he breathed in, he wheezed.

“It will clear up,” the ENT Doctor said as he checked his oxygen levels. “The important thing is to get your body doing the work, again.”

John felt the urge to clear his throat. He ignored it, and spoke through the choke, instead. “When can I try eating?” He sounded like an eighty year-old

“We’ll start you on liquids today,” the nurse said. “Your throat needs to get used to swallowing, and your wounds aren’t healed yet. You might get reflux, and bleeding, which we really don’t want, if you have anything that needs chewing.”

John sighed.

The medical staff cleared away, before another nurse put her head around the door. “John, there’s someone to see you…” the wary look in her eyes told him who it was.

“He can come in,” John rasped.

The nurse went away, and Sherlock came through the door a moment later. He looked at John, and his face turned stricken.

“Hey,” John croaked.

“John… I am so sorry…” Sherlock oozed around the side of the bed, touching John’s legs through the sheet as though checking he was real. “I am… oh god…” He looked at John’s face again.

“Looks worse. Than is.” John forced a smile. He’d seen a mirror. His neck was black and blue with bruising, his Adam’s apple swollen and painful, blue stitches visible in his skin. He was five days unshaven, hadn’t slept properly, and had a feeding tube up his nose.

Sherlock, as tall, beautiful and threatening as ever, shook his head. “I could have killed you.”

“Didn’t though.” John reached a hand out, and Sherlock took it. His hand was cold. The vampire looked well enough, only frightened and worried. John cleared his throat without thinking, then groaned in pain.

“John? What’s wrong…”

“Throat.” John winced. He could taste blood, and knew Sherlock could probably smell it. He felt a shudder of fear crawl over his skin as he saw Sherlock’s nostrils flare, for just the tiniest instant. Before, John wouldn’t have felt afraid. Now…

It had changed things. Fear coiled in his gut as his back tensed, his brain preparing to flee. Subconcious. But re-learned, after the incident with the bite.

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and he knew the vampire knew it, as well.

Sherlock gently squeezed his hand, but didn’t let go. “When can you come out? Have they said?”

John tapped his notepad, which had the expected recovery times written on.

Sherlock frowned. “Another week?”

“At least.” John turned his pad over, where he’d written a list of questions, and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it.

_Who sent that powder?_

“I don’t know for sure, yet,” he said, looking up at John. “But I have an idea.”

 _Do they want to hurt you, or me_?

“Both of us, I imagine. If you died because of me…” Sherlock’s grip tightened. “Whoever it is, they know I won’t lose sleep over a risk to my own life. So to speak.”

John frowned. That didn’t make sense. Unless Sherlock was more protective over _him_ than he was over himself.

That made him feel strange. Nice, but strange.

John loved Sherlock. He knew it in his bones, and he had told him as much, but Sherlock had never said it back. John didn’t expect him to. Love must be a serious thing to declare if you were an immortal. Not that it wasn’t serious for him, but… he needed Sherlock to know. Perhaps Sherlock was content with _showing_ John how he felt.

Even if, right now, what he mostly felt was guilt.

John tapped the notepad again, directing Sherlock back to the questions he’d written down.

_What’s happening with your flat?_

“Oh,” Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft’s sent in a specialist cleaning team. They’ll be working on it for another few days.” He shrugged. “I suppose it’s not necessarily a bad thing that you’re in here. You’d only have to stay at Mycroft’s, with me.”

John smiled. “Oh no,” he whispered. Then swallowed, slowly, taking care of his throat. “You said. You think. You know. Who?”

Sherlock nodded. “Someone I… used to know. It’s his style.”

John’s smile twitched. “Old flame?”

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck.

John raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“No. But yes. It’s complicated,” Sherlock sighed. “We weren’t… lovers, in the traditional sense. It was… a short, but complex relationship.”

John watched the vampire’s face struggle to contain some emotion he couldn’t read. “They human?”

There was a beat of silence.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Not anymore.”

The implication didn’t hit John suddenly. It settled over him like a heavy cloud, pressing him into the bed, weighing him down with the knowledge that Sherlock had not only had a lover before – and of course he had, no one could do what he did in the bedroom without a lot of practice – but that he had turned him. And, furthermore… he was no longer around.

“You left him?” John croaked. He didn’t know whether he wanted a denial, or not.

“I left him,” Sherlock said. “At an… inconsiderate time. He would be angry about it, I understand that, but…” he shook his head. “It’s been over a century.”

 _A century must seem quick when you’ve got forever_ , John thought. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

John cast a hand about him, showing the empty hospital room. _I’ve got nothing else on_.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It isn’t pleasant.”

John shrugged, and made an attempt to stare him down. Of course, Sherlock’s red eyes could win any manner of staring contest, but John had to try.

Sherlock looked away. Then settled into the visitor’s chair more comfortably. “It was… sometime in the 1890s,” he said. “I can’t be sure of the year – it never seemed important to keep track. We were two hundred years, almost, past the last major human-vampire conflict, and things were… if not peaceful, then… tolerated, on both sides. Relationships were highly unusual, then. Moreso than now, in fact.” Sherlock’s eyes traced over John’s body for a moment, the heaviness of the word ‘relationship’ like a firm caress over John’s skin.

His blood stirred in interest.

Sherlock went on. “I found a man I liked the look of, in one of the city parks. Soliciting. I offered him money for something less strenuous than being fucked by the gentry, and he took it. It was… the early days of my trying to get control over the… situation. And a human you could use regularly would be less of a temptation than a stranger.”

John frowned.

Sherlock smiled. “A predator’s urge to kill is separate from the urge to feed.” He flashed his teeth. “They are closely connected, like love and lust, but separate all the same. I could never lose the urge to feed, but I could overcome the urge to kill. It meant… forming an attachment. At the time, I did not think it would be something… romantic. A partnership, was what I envisioned.”

“But…”

“But,” Sherlock conceded, “one thing led to another, and we were… together. I cared for him, despite the danger, and the warnings from my brother, and others of my kind. I thought I could control myself. But, eventually, we ended up in a situation in which I was inexperienced in having to maintain control. And… I lost it.” His face was curiously blank. “He died in my arms, and it was up to me to tell his… friends… what had happened. I could only find one who was unafraid of me – truth be told, he had always been unlikable. Unafraid to the point of rudeness. The sort of man you’d like to pretend does not exist, when you enter a room… but somehow he ends up being the centre of your attention. Like a wasp – you have to keep your eye on it, because losing sight of it would be worse. He would steal from the men he worked around, and bully them away from trade, and act in a very strange manner. He had always seemed somewhat jealous of our… agreement. But instead of wallowing in his own grief, to my surprise, he comforted me. I was so desperate to be consoled, that I let him.”

John blinked.

“And… he asked something of me, in return. In my state, I didn’t think it through, and I just… did it. It was only afterwards that I realised my mistake. Creating another vampire wouldn’t bring back the man I’d killed. And the one I’d created had already been a jealous and conniving man. I felt nothing for him but regret over my actions.”

“So. You left him?”

“Yes. He tried to contact me, several times, afterwards. I refused to see him, fled the city, the country – it was easy to disappear in those days. And I left him. It was incredibly irresponsible of me. He had no one to teach him how to behave, how to stay safe, any of it. I thought there was a good chance he was dead.”

“And he. Sent. The silver?”

“I think it can only be him. He’s the only person still alive who I’ve wronged.” Sherlock glanced at John’s bruised throat. “Aside from you, perhaps.”

John didn’t know what to think. He wished he could speak more easily, as if that might make processing the story less of a burden.

“I didn’t want _someone_ with me,” Sherlock said. “I wanted… the man who died. And I killed him. I nearly killed you.”

“Not your fault.”

“But what a fitting punishment, don’t you think?” Sherlock raised his red eyes. “You could argue I deserve it, but you do not. I will find him, the one who caused this.”

“And then?” John put his head on one side. “No vampire prison.”

Sherlock made a _you know what will happen_ face.

It didn’t make John feel any better. If anything, he felt worse. The whole idea of Sherlock killing… again… Suddenly, he felt extremely tired. This wasn’t something fleeting, like James Sholto’s attitude, in the barracks, months ago. This was going to be John’s entire life. Sherlock, always ready to kill. Enemies from before John was even born. Sherlock would never stop being a vampire. And John was…

…so different.

His heart gave a twist, and a painful little thought was born.

He didn’t voice it, for now. Just rolled it around his mind, letting it soak into the creases of his brain.

He loved Sherlock. That was true. But perhaps staying with him was…

John pushed the thought away.

But he knew it would keep growing.

Sherlock was stroking his hand, a thumb running smoothly over John’s knuckles. It made John want to cry.

“Love you,” he croaked, in his awful old-man voice.

Sherlock smiled. Then leaned up, and kissed him gently on the cheek.


End file.
